


two young lovers, half-priced drinks

by sadwhales



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bartender Mickey Milkovich, Canon-Typical Violence, College Student Ian Gallagher, Developing Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Sexual Content, discussion of bipolar disorder, it's sweet too don't worry, referenced canon corrective rape, talking things out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadwhales/pseuds/sadwhales
Summary: Bad first dates at grimy bars don't feel that terrible when you're saved by the hot bartender. These things never lead to anything but catching feelings.Here's to letting go of bad memories and making new ones together.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 230
Kudos: 578
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been agonizing over this for months now and losing motivation over and over, but here it is. It's pretty much finished, I just need to clean up the chapters a bit before posting, so everything will be up in like a week or so.
> 
> Despite the tags, I feel like the tone is overall light and focuses on getting to know each other and falling in love on the way. There are mentions of bipolar disorder and the feelings/difficulties that come with it throughout the fic, as well as references to an incident similar to 3x6 (though these are not graphic, it still affects the way Mickey functions sometimes). Everything else worth mentioning I'll try to add to the notes.
> 
> (Title from The Front Bottoms' [2YL](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9U22QQpHNT4) which I listened on loop during writing)
> 
> Lastly, thank you so, so much for checking this out<3

The joint is definitely not Ian’s usual scene.

A dingy sports bar, all wooden surfaces covered by a thick film of grime, used-up red faux-leather chairs, walls lined with tacky, colorful shirts in picture frames. It’s much like the Alibi, only filled with dudebros instead of washed-up, middle-aged drunks, which is what makes this place infinitely worse. Ian’s been dealing with middle-aged drunks his whole life, even had the privilege of having been raised by one (although nobody in their right mind would call what Frank’s been doing “raising children”). The kind of meatheads that surround Ian now are exactly the type of people Ian spent his high school years carefully avoiding. It seems like going through college doesn’t change them at all.

Lip is the one to blame for dragging Ian along, with his girlfriend and a bunch of their friends Ian doesn’t recognize and doesn’t particularly like so far.

“It’ll do you some good to meet new people every now and then”, is what his brother had said. Ian had sighed, agreed, knowing it’d been code for “Ian, you haven’t been on a date in a while, and I’m worried it means you’re lonely and on the brink of falling apart mentally.”

Ian’s theory had been confirmed when, upon arriving, he’d been sat down next to a guy who’d looked Ian up and down like he was a five-course meal, then brushed his hand suggestively along Ian’s bicep.

The date, if that’s what you want to call it, is not going well. The guy – Josh – is not Ian’s type at all; he’s blond, small and delicate, and while obviously there’s more to dating than immediate physical attraction, Ian’s having trouble forming any kind of connection at all. Josh is flirty to the point of it being uncomfortable, constantly finding excuses to touch Ian, nibbling at the plastic straw in his drink in a way that’s most likely supposed to be seductive. The only thing they seem to have in common is how much they don’t want to be in this particular bar.

Despite the awkwardness, Ian tries to keep up polite conversation, dodging Josh’s attempts at fishing for compliments, all the while shooting glares at Lip to subtly let him know he wants to get the fuck out of here. Lip either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, the shithead. This is the last time Ian’s going anywhere with him.

Without warning, Josh’s hand is on Ian’s thigh under the table, and he’s leaning close, whispering: “You wanna get out of here?”

Oh, fuck no. Ian stands up so suddenly that Josh pulls back, half-spooked. He’s probably being rude, and he tries to compensate by giving Josh a smile he hopes is polite.

“I’m going to- Uh, I think I’ll go get a drink”, Ian says, whips around stiffly and ignores Lip asking if Ian could bring him another beer, too.

Ian heads for the bar, checks over his shoulder that the view to their table is blocked, and slumps down onto a barstool. He has no intention of going back anytime soon. Jesus Christ, what a fucking disaster. This is what happens when Lip is allowed to organize gay dates, and clearly the motherfucker should be arrested for his crimes.

“What can I get you?”

Ian looks up, makes eye contact with the bartender.

The guy looks like he’s around Ian’s age. He’s on the shorter side, black hair gelled back and expression pinched like Ian’s inconvenienced him somehow. His eyes are blue, and Ian stares, maybe, because the guy scoffs.

“You think you could make a decision before tomorrow? I’ve got other customers to serve.”

Ian looks around. He’s the only one sitting at the counter. He turns back to the guy, stuck between shocked and amused. It’s the complete opposite of good customer service, whatever it is this guy’s doing, and Ian is too surprised to even be offended.

“A beer, thanks”, Ian tells him, mouth settling into an incredulous smile. He shouldn’t really be drinking, but whatever. It’s one beer, all he’s having today, and he needs it if the night keeps going like it’s been going so far.

“Alright”, the bartender says, eyes Ian like _he’s_ the weirdo, and turns away to fill a glass.

The sleeves of his black button up are rolled, and Ian watches his bare forearms as he works. And maybe his gaze slips momentarily downwards, too, to the guy’s round, jean-clad ass.

The guy sets the beer on the table in front of Ian. “What’s the drama?”

It throws Ian for another loop. “What?”

The guy gestures at him. “You’re sitting there drinking alone, all fucking mopey and dramatic-looking. What, did your wife leave and take the kids?”

If this is an attempt at making conversation, the guy is definitely not putting too much effort into being friendly. Ian feels like a fucking idiot, but his smile only widens.

“Do I look old enough to be married and have kids?”

The bartender throws his hands up, like he’s already regretting even asking. And _Ian’s_ the dramatic one, clearly. “I don’t know your fucking life, man.”

Ian hides his amusement by sipping his beer. “Well, since you asked, it would make anyone a little mopey, having to spend the only free night of the week at a shithole like this.”

The guy’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. His jaw twitches a bit, and Ian can’t take his eyes off of him.

“You’re calling the place I work at a shithole?”

Ian shrugs, raises the glass to his lips nonchalantly. “Guess I am.”

“Yeah? You bring this attitude to every establishment you visit?”

Ian can barely stop himself from snorting at the way the guy emphasizes the word _establishment_. He doesn’t know why he finds the blatant rudeness so funny, but it’s probably got something to do with the fact that this conversation already feels about a million times more stimulating than the one Ian had with Josh. A part of it could also be how damn attractive this dude is.

“I don’t know”, Ian says. “You talk to every customer like you’re trying to get a bad review on Yelp?”

“Fucking Yelp”, the bartender says, like he doesn’t give a shit about a dumbass review. He’s leaning on the counter now, his attention completely on Ian. Ian can’t say he hates it. He notices, for the first time, the dark letters tattooed across the guy’s knuckles. “Who’s forcing you to be here, huh?”

“My brother”, Ian admits. “He set me up with someone.”

At that, the guy looks around, laughs a bit. “You’ve got a date, and you’re here, drinking alone and talking to me? That bad?”

“Yep”, Ian says and takes a large gulp of beer.

“Well, shit”, the guy looks amused, and Ian can’t even be mad that he finds Ian’s unfortunate love life funny, because the expression is genuine, smooths out the guy’s face and brings out little laugh lines around his eyes. “That sucks. Guess your drink’s on me, then.”

“See, that’s how you treat a customer”, Ian teases despite the warm feeling in his stomach.

“Careful, before I take it back”, the bartender says, and goes to pour shots to a couple of guys in jerseys at the other end of the counter.

Immediately, Ian misses the conversation, especially as it was just starting to pick up. Those few minutes were definitely the most fun he’s had all night. He continues to sip his beer slowly, mindful of how fast he can drink if he doesn’t want to get completely shitfaced. He watches the bartender work, intrigued by his confident posture, the easy movements that let Ian know he’s a professional. Idly, Ian thinks that his looks are completely wasted at a place like this, frequented by straight football jocks. At a gay bar, or a trendy nightclub full of young women, he’d be some serious eye candy.

Ian’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize someone is behind him until there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey”, Josh says, sliding onto the barstool next to Ian. “What are you doing here all alone? We were having such a good time.”

Jesus, talk about not being able to take a hint.

“Yeah”, Ian says, schooling his face into a smile. “About that. I’m sure you’re a nice guy, but I’m just not feeling much of a connection, you know? I’m going to head home soon.”

Josh isn’t having it. “Uh-huh. You’ll change your mind about that when you take me home.” He leans closer. “I’m kind of wild.”

Ian tries his _hardest_ not to cringe, he really does. He puts a careful hand between them. “Look, listen, it’s nothing personal. I’m just gonna drink my beer and go.”

“ _Ian_ ”, Josh says, almost a whine. “Come on, you won’t regret it. You’re really hot, I’m really hot, and I _bet_ we’re both amazing in bed.”

Ian is about to change his tone into something firmer when they’re interrupted.

“What can I get you?”

The bartender’s back, drying his hands on a towel and regarding Josh with an unreadable expression, mouth tense and eyebrows arched.

“Oh, nothing”, Josh waves him off, barely sparing a glance in his direction. “We were just leaving.”

Ian meets the bartender’s eyes, silently communicating that they are, in fact, _not_ just leaving. The bartender looks back at him almost sympathetically, with a little shrug that clearly says _what can you do_. The asshole is apparently not about to help him.

Josh’s hand is on his arm again, squeezing in a way that’s meant to be flirtatious, but in reality, is just annoying.

And _really_ , Ian hates to be rude, knows it sucks to get rejected, but he tried being polite, tried being nice, and there’s a limit to how much bullshit he can take.

Ian turns his body away from Josh completely, leans onto the counter, puts on his most charming smile.

“Actually, could I get another drink?” he asks, voice lower than usual, gaze fixed on the bartender.

For the first time the man behind the counter looks less than confident. He stares at Ian in silent confusion, like he’s trying to figure out why the tone of the conversation has changed so suddenly.

After a few seconds of torturous silence, he says, voice careful: “Sure. What are you having?”

“What do you recommend?” Ian asks, tilting his head, letting his eyes roam all over the guy’s body. “I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

It’s a gamble, that’s for sure. Ian’s not being subtle. Best-case scenario is that the bartender’s not a homophobe, plays along for a while, and waits until later to tell Ian to fuck off. The worst-case scenario is that he’s the same type of asshole as most of his customers, and Ian’s about to get his ass kicked right here in the middle of a sports bar.

There must be a God after all because the guy smiles, even if it’s a little strained.

“Sweet, huh?” he asks, rolling his sleeves up a little more, flexing his forearms in the process. “Yeah, I can get you something sweet.”

“Bet you can”, Ian leers, and it feels just a little too natural to flirt with this guy, a little too much like he isn’t doing it only to get Josh off his back.

He doesn’t get to hear an answer, because apparently his date has seen enough.

“What’s wrong with you?” Josh asks, voice going high with indignation as he’s standing up from his seat.

Ian turns back to him to smile sweetly. “Think I’ll stay for a while longer, after all. I’m having a really good time.”

Josh flushes with anger. “You could’ve gone home with me, and you’re choosing _this_?” He shoots a disgusted glare at the bartender. “I thought you’d be classy, but it seems like going to college isn’t enough to take the _trash_ out of South Side trash.”

Ian can’t hold back a chuckle, because that’s literally the weakest insult he could’ve come up with. Ian’s been called worse by his own family.

“Oh, right, that’s so fucking funny”, Josh sneers, not a trace of sweetness or syrupy seduction left. “You missed your chance, Ian Gallagher. Good luck not getting an STD.”

With one last look of disdain, he stomps away, looking significantly less graceful than before. It leaves Ian alone with the bartender, and suddenly he’s feeling sort of mortified about doing what he just did.

“I am _so_ sorry about that”, he turns back to the bartender, grimacing. “Thanks for having my back. And you know, for not throwing me out. That was really inappropriate, again, thank you. I don’t really need another drink, I just needed to get rid of him.”

“Uh, yeah”, the bartender says, looking as uncomfortable as Ian feels. “I figured.”

There’s something tight in his expression, the set of his jaw and the hardness of his eyes. Ian isn’t sure what caused it, but he wants to take it away.

“Not that-” he blurts out before he can think it through. “Not that you aren’t my type. Because you are, totally. I would ask you out, if you, you know.” Ian pauses, wants to _fucking die_ with how stupid he sounds. “This is also super inappropriate. Feel free to tell me to go fuck myself.”

The guy stares, kind of open-mouthed. There’s no way to know what he’s thinking.

“Got it”, he says, walks away, and that seems to be it.

Ian’s getting ready to collect the pieces of his smashed dignity and slip out of the door without anyone knowing when the guy comes back. He doesn’t say a word but places a piece of paper on the counter in front of Ian, then leaves again.

Shit. It’s probably a check. Ian must’ve pissed him off so bad, made him so uncomfortable that he decided to take back the free drink. If that’s the case, Ian probably deserves it, as well.

Ian folds the paper open, and it’s not a check. It’s not a check, and nothing could’ve prepared him for what’s on it, written in a messy scrawl.

_My shift ends in fifteen minutes, meet me outside and you won’t need to go fuck yourself._

The message doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. Ian can’t _believe_ it. He just chased his douchebag date away and made a complete ass out of himself, and now he gets to go home with the hot bartender.

Seems like the night just went from terrible to pretty damn great.

Ian sits at the bar for ten more minutes, then sneaks around the room to the front door, making sure Lip doesn’t spot him. Let him think the disaster date was successful and Ian went home with Josh.

The sky outside is darkening but summer is quickly approaching, warm weathers settling over Chicago, so Ian stands on the sidewalk comfortably in just a thin sweater. He still has the piece of paper crumpled in his fist. While he waits, he straightens it out, smooths his thumb over the clearly hurriedly scribbled letters. The note is straightforward and flirty, in a completely different way than anything he heard coming out of Josh’s mouth. Ian decides he likes it, likes the bartender’s crude attitude and no-bullshit approach.

Ian’s had his fair share of hookups. Not so many in the recent years, mainly because back when he’d started taking his mental health seriously, put effort into keeping himself balanced, casual sex had felt like a slippery slope back towards being manic. He’d been scared shitless of losing control and not being able to tell until it was too late. Now he’s been medicated for over three years and doing well for most of it, first carefully easing back into dating, then sex without dating. He doesn’t do it often, but he’s getting better at listening to his body and knowing when his brain isn’t acting quite how it should. He still likes sex, probably always will, he has needs like any man in his early twenties, chemical imbalance in his brain or not.

That being said, the ever-present diagnosis can bring out unnecessary nervousness even when he knows he’s just being regular-horny. Which, right now, he’s _not_. He’s neither nervous nor just regular-horny. There _is_ obviously the physical side, going home with a guy who definitely has his dick interested, who he even seems to have chemistry with. But now Ian’s daydreaming about his personality, his sense of humor, his handwriting, for fuck’s sake.

He feels giddy about spending more time with this guy. He feels sort of stupid about feeling giddy, because they’ve only said a couple of sentences to each other, and really, Ian doesn’t know anything about him yet.

He wants to, maybe.

The door swings open, and the bartender steps outside, already sticking a cigarette between his lips. He quirks an eyebrow at Ian, offers the pack, and Ian takes one, trying to sneakily read what the knuckle tattoos say. Smoking is the one bad habit he hasn’t been able to shake.

“My place is three blocks that way”, the guy says and starts walking.

Wow, he truly doesn’t complicate things. Ian falls into step beside him. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Mickey”, the guy says, lights up. Then he casts Ian a sly glance. “And you’re _Ian Gallagher_ , one chance already missed tonight.”

“Lucky you were there to give me another one”, Ian returns Mickey’s smile, plucks the lighter from his fingers. “I better not screw this one up.”

“Don’t worry, you got it in the bag”, Mickey pauses, blows a thick cloud of smoke towards the sky. “Though, your pickup lines could use some work.”

Ian pinches the bridge of his nose, a fraction of his earlier mortification coming back. “God. Again, I am so sorry. That was awful. I would seriously never do that.”

Mickey laughs, snorts really, and it shouldn’t be attractive, but it is. “ _I’m in the mood for something sweet_.”

“Shut up, never repeat that back to me again”, Ian shoves him playfully. It feels natural, even though they’ve known each other for less than an hour. “Worked for you, didn’t it?”

“ _You_ worked for me”, Mickey says, surprisingly honest. It could be just to stroke Ian’s ego, but it doesn’t feel like that.

“Yeah? You’ve got a thing for gingers?”

Mickey sucks on his lower lip, mockingly considering. “Mmh, more like a thing for guys who look like they’ll fuck me like they mean it.”

And _oh_ , doesn’t that set Ian’s imagination running wild. He clears his throat, hopes he isn’t blushing. “I guarantee I’ll mean it.”

It’s so easy. Ian can’t remember the last time it was this easy with anyone, the last time someone’s mere presence managed to erase his nerves so well. There isn’t a hint of the earlier awkwardness left.

The easy banter continues, with an undercurrent of light dirty talk, and Ian can barely take his eyes off Mickey as they walk. He follows the curve of his mouth, the sure hands bringing the cigarette to his lips, the curls of dark hair the wind throws attractively over his forehead.

Inside the pocket of his jeans, Ian pinches the corner of the note Mickey left him.

* * *

When the door of his apartment clicks shut, the arousal that’s been sluggishly burning in Mickey’s stomach ever since Ian Gallagher gave him bedroom eyes from across the counter roars into full flame.

Apparently, Ian wasn’t kidding about _meaning it_ , because he has Mickey pressed against the door in a second, hands on his waist, mouth hovering over his, silently asking for permission.

It’s something Mickey still doesn’t do much, often prefers to just turn around, bend over and exchange the mouth-to-mouth contact for the guy’s teeth on his neck.

Now he closes the distance between them without thinking it further, captures Ian’s lips, pulls him closer by gripping the back of his neck. Ian doesn’t make him regret that decision, because _fuck_ , can the guy kiss. He coaxes Mickey’s mouth open, soft but demanding, starts taking him apart seemingly without much effort. There’s something about the way Ian boxes him in, the way he has to tilt Mickey’s head a bit to make perfect contact, that’s making him go weak at the knees.

When he feels Ian’s big hand leave his waist to instead cup his ass roughly, Mickey shoves Ian back just enough to tell him, “Bedroom. You ain’t fucking me in the hallway.”

Mickey doesn’t bother turning on the lights, just leads Ian through his dark apartment, keeping a tight grip around his forearm the entire way.

They don’t waste time picking up where they left off. Mickey gets his hands under Ian’s sweater as they stumble towards the bed, runs his fingers greedily over the hard planes of his stomach.

“God, I wanna fuck you so bad”, Ian growls when he’s pushing Mickey onto the mattress. Mickey didn’t make the bed today, which probably makes him look like a slob. He doesn’t give a damn, though, since it’s saving them so much trouble now.

The way his voice is rough with arousal already sends shivers down Mickey’s spine, so at odds with the adorably hot redhead who’s been smiling at Mickey like a total dork all night. Mickey reaches blindly towards the lamp on his bedside table to flick the light on; he needs to see in detail how that desire looks on Ian’s face.

And fuck, does it look like every wet dream Mickey’s ever had.

“ _Fuck_ me”, he manages to grunt, tugging at the hem of Ian’s sweater. “Or you waiting for a written invitation?”

Ian lets out a chuckle, a little breathless sound accompanied by an eye-roll, and even that somehow looks hot. “Bossy.”

Ian sits back a bit to get his shirt off, and Mickey does he same, fumbles the buttons open with impatient fingers. Ian is faster and moves to work on Mickey’s jeans with the filthiest smirk Mickey’s ever seen. Ian gets him naked from the waist down, then slowly, seductively, leans down to suck the head of Mickey’s cock into his mouth.

Mickey’s helpless to do anything but grip the sheets tightly like he’s fifteen fucking years old again and this is the first blowjob he’s ever been given. He drinks in every detail of Ian’s face, green eyes darkened with desire, lips already shiny with spit, the almost-invisible freckles in the low light. He doesn’t even dare to blink.

Without warning, Ian sucks him down further, makes this little pleased noise in the back of his throat. It punches Mickey right in the gut, tears a startled gasp out of him. He has to reach out to tangle a hand in Ian’s hair, tug him back gently to get him to stop before Mickey embarrasses himself by shooting his load before even getting a dick in his ass.

“Christ, fuck, _Ian_ ”, he pants. “Can’t- Fucking get _in_ me.”

Ian licks his lips, clearly smug about his accomplishments. He loses the rest of his clothes and crawls on top of Mickey. The filthy smirk is back, but there’s also this youthful eagerness about him, carved into the upturned corners of Ian’s mouth, the arch of his eyebrows. It feels honest and new and Mickey doesn’t know what to do with it.

Ian leans down to kiss him again, briefly, before moving on to suck the spot just under Mickey’s jaw. Mickey tilts his head back automatically, runs his palms over Ian’s arms and shoulders before snaking a hand between their bodies to stroke Ian’s dick.

It’s warm and heavy in Mickey’s hand, feels like it’ll stretch him out perfectly, and Mickey’s head goes a bit dizzy just imagining it. It’s sensitive, too, because Ian shakes against him, bites his neck sharply every time Mickey runs his thumb over the leaking tip.

“Ah, ah, shit”, Ian moans into his ear. “You got lube?”

Mickey’s answer is to yank open the drawer beside the bed and push a bottle of lube and a condom into Ian’s waiting hand.

Ian preps him quickly but thoroughly with two fingers, holds him open by pressing one of his legs up towards his chest, firm grip on the back of Mickey’s knee. After, Mickey goes to turn around, get on his hands and knees, but Ian stops him.

“Wanna fuck you on your back”, he says, again with that strange mix of sexy and earnest. “I wanna look at you.”

Also something Mickey doesn’t do. He likes a good, hard pounding from behind, because generally speaking, he mostly cares about the dick in his ass, not who is attached to it.

“Alright”, is what he says now, settles back down. He tells himself it’s only because he’s too horny to argue.

It definitely feels worth it when Ian pushes in, even bigger than Mickey anticipated, and he can’t remember the last time he felt this full. Fuck, he’s missed it, breathing through the seemingly impossible stretch, shivery sighs falling from his mouth against his will.

“You’re fucking tight”, Ian moans, fucks into him shallowly, deliberately. “That’s perfect.”

Mickey wraps his legs around Ian’s hips, pulls him closer until he’s all the way inside, buried to the hilt. He lets Ian pull back, roll his hips forwards smoothly once, twice, until the slide gets easy.

“Yeah, yeah, fuck me”, Mickey encourages him. “Feels fucking good.”

He’s rewarded by Ian hitching his legs up higher, changing the angle so that he’s hitting Mickey’s prostate, and _Christ_. Mickey’s breath stutters, he grips Ian’s shoulder hard, buries a hand in the red curls. He likes the face Ian makes with every thrust, mouth falling open a little bit, eyelids fluttering in pleasure. It’s overwhelmingly intimate, but Mickey doesn’t want to look away.

It’s slow, deep strokes at first, stupidly satisfying with how that perfect goddamn dick, curved just right, nails him like it was made for fucking him. Even when the angle is slightly off, the size, the gorgeous heavy feeling of it makes Mickey’s thighs shake.

Only encouraged by breathy demands of “harder” and “make me fucking come”, Ian starts speeding up. He leans closer, swallows up every low whine that Mickey refuses to believe he’s making, but that somehow come out of his mouth anyway.

“That’s it”, Ian gasps in between kisses, brings a hand to Mickey’s cock. “There you go. You gonna come for me, Mickey?”

“Fuck, Ian, _yes_ ”, he says without really meaning to. It makes Ian groan roughly, makes him bite Mickey’s lower lip and soothe it with his tongue.

When Mickey does come, it’s powerful enough to make his entire body seize up and shake, and honestly, he’s surprised he doesn’t pass out right then and there. He’s still coming down when Ian finishes, spills into the condom after a few more thrusts into Mickey’s over sensitized body.

“Jesus”, Ian says, pulls out carefully and presses one more kiss onto Mickey’s slack mouth.

Mickey just lies there, tries to force his brain back online, watches Ian get up enough to toss the condom, then flop back down beside Mickey. He smiles when he notices Mickey staring, swipes the sweaty locks from his forehead.

Ian’s eyelashes cast spidery shadows over his cheeks in the light of the bedside lamp. He’s flushed all the way to his sculpted chest. Something about the sight of him makes Mickey swallow, blink rapidly.

To fill the silence, to stop whatever direction his thoughts are taking, Mickey says, “Thank fuck your date was a grade A douchebag.”

Ian laughs, bright and sudden. “You’re one to talk. How the fuck do they even let you talk to customers?”

Mickey waves a hand. “Hey, I keep it real.”

“Clearly”, Ian snorts. “Are you that charming with everyone or did I get special treatment?”

Well, Mickey certainly doesn’t offer his ass to every punk that comes in and buys a beer.

“ _Clearly_ ”, Mickey echoes. “You were into it.”

Small talk doesn’t come easily for him. Mickey’s not naturally nice, hell, half the time he has to mentally fight himself to keep from socking every other asshole customer in the face. He’s honest, straightforward, but he usually isn’t outright _rude_. Not at work, at least. It’s kind of a requirement when you’re trying to earn a buck at a normal day job.

It’s extremely embarrassing, and there’s no way Mickey could begin to explain it, but Ian’s presence makes him feel off-kilter. The moment he’d sat down with that defeated frown on his face, stared at Mickey just a little too long before speaking, Mickey’s hackles had gone right up. He’d been possessed with the primal need to protect himself, one he thought he’d been slowly shedding.

And he’d wanted to sleep with Ian anyway. Which is exactly what just happened.

He lets himself close his eyes for a second, vaguely wondering if he’s made a terrible mistake. Mickey’s never been that smart, but at the age of twenty-three, he really should stop being a fucking idiot.

“Hey”, Ian’s voice is a low murmur, accompanied by warm fingers brushing against Mickey’s lower stomach. “Just tell me when you’re done daydreaming. I’d really like to suck your dick properly.”

It takes approximately half a second for Mickey to forget what was worrying him in the first place.

It’s still dark out when Mickey blinks awake. For the first time in a long time, he wakes up to the feeling that something is wrong. His heart leaps into his throat when he discovers what it is; he isn’t alone in the bedroom.

The realization is followed by maybe two seconds of absolute, blinding panic, during which Mickey is ready to fight for his life. He’s already halfway out of bed when he recognizes the slump of a person under the sheet beside him.

It’s Ian. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s Ian, face sleep-soft and hair like fire against the white pillowcase.

Mickey’s not in danger. His body is having trouble getting that memo. He sits back down, heart still thundering inside his ribcage.

It takes him several minutes to calm down completely. This is- He hasn’t fallen asleep with another person in _years_. Mickey takes guys home, kicks them out as soon as they wipe down their dicks. He doesn’t fucking _do this_.

He casts another glance at Ian, still sleeping peacefully. Mickey isn’t enough of an asshole to wake him up just to tell him to fuck off in the middle of the fucking night.

He digs his phone out of the pile of clothes on the floor to check the clock, squints at the numbers on the too-bright screen. 03:17. The normal thing to do would be to climb back into bed, get a few more hours of sleep, maybe start the day right by sucking off the hot redhead in his bed before he goes home. Instead, Mickey gets up, pulls on a sweatshirt and a pair of fresh boxers, grabs a pack of cigarettes and slips out of the room.

He sits on his tiny little balcony until the sun creeps up past the horizon. He chain-smokes and listens to the sounds of the city waking up beneath him. He thinks about Ian Gallagher and what it might mean that he ended up sleeping through the night in Mickey’s bed, and he feels haltingly _alone_ , uncomfortably disconnected from the people bustling along the streets of Chicago.

It’s almost seven when the door creaks open and Ian steps out, dressed in last night’s clothes but feet bare, toes curling against the concrete floor. He’s washing something down with a glass of water.

He smiles, vaguely apologetic. “I’ve been told I snore. Sorry.”

“What? Oh, no, it’s not you.” It is, but not in any way Mickey can begin to communicate. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

“That sucks”, Ian says and nudges Mickey’s shoulder with his knee. “You coming back inside?”

It’s not like Mickey can hide on the balcony for the rest of his life. Not even for the rest of his day since he has another shift tonight, so he gets up, heads to the bedroom to get dressed.

“You have literally nothing in your fridge”, Ian comments from the kitchen.

There’s the sound of water running, of something being placed in the sink, after which Ian appears to the doorway. He lingers, leaning against the frame, watches Mickey much like he did last night, eyes too piercing, something warm coloring his expression.

Mickey is feeling too tight at the seams to appreciate it.

“What are you going through my fridge for, huh?” he asks, tugging on his jeans and avoiding Ian’s eyes.

“Checking if you have orange juice”, Ian says, tone breezy, too damn chipper for seven o’clock in the morning. “So, since you forgot to go grocery shopping and I’m hungry as fuck, maybe we could go out for breakfast. I know this one place, best pancakes I’ve ever had, I swear.”

Ian’s coming closer, boxing Mickey in that exact way he liked earlier. Now it’s oppressive and just _too much_ in every single way, and Mickey needs to _not be_ here, needs to get Ian’s smell out of his sheets, wash the glass he left in the sink, peel the redhead completely out of his brain until he’s just another faceless, nameless one-night-stand.

Mickey’s head snaps up when Ian’s hand brushes his hip.

“No”, he says, voice rough, and Ian’s face falls. Fuck. “I mean. I have to- I’m fucking exhausted, man, you know. I’m working today.”

“Oh”, Ian takes a careful step back. He’s clearly disappointed, and Mickey refuses, _refuses_ to feel guilty. “Okay. Sure, I get it.”

They stand awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom, the quiet feels suffocating. It’s not Ian’s fault that Mickey’s being a pussy about this.

“I think you should-” Mickey breaks the silence at the exact same moment as Ian does.

“I could give you a call later, if you’re feeling-”

They both fall silent again, the awkward tension growing tenfold. Fuck. One fucking night of fun was all Mickey wanted, of fucking course it had to end like this.

“Probably best if you just go”, he says. He can’t quite meet Ian’s eyes.

Ian swallows, shifts on his feet. “Okay.”

“I’ll pay for the cab”, Mickey offers weakly. “If you need one.”

“No, that’s fine”, Ian says, too airy, like he’s trying not to let the rejection sting. “I’ll take the L.”

He goes, gathers his things and puts on his shoes and disappears through the door. The click of the lock rings through the apartment, and Mickey’s alone. It doesn’t feel the same as it did the previous morning, or the morning before that. Something’s distorted, and Ian’s gone, he’s _gone_ like Mickey wanted. Now he isn’t sure how he feels about it.

Mickey goes back to bed, pulls the covers over the tangled sheets before crawling onto the mattress, fully dressed.

It takes a week before he sees Ian again, and it’s not a coincidence, because he’s at work when it happens.

It’s a relatively quiet Thursday night, which means Mickey’s been spending the majority of his shift wiping down the counter and stocking the shelves. His weird mood from the previous weekend has dissipated almost completely, and even though Ian still lingers in his mind, Mickey has decided to chalk it up to the fact that Ian had been the best lay he’d had in a while.

What’s important is that he isn’t _actively_ thinking about Ian. He isn’t thinking about the dejected look on his face when Mickey told him to go.

Because of that, though, it throws him off completely when suddenly the redhead is sitting behind the counter, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Hey”, Mickey says, mostly out of surprise.

“Hi”, Ian greets him. He looks fucking good, in his moss green button up, orange stubble more prominent on his cheeks than it was a week ago.

“Can I get you something?” Mickey asks, feeling sort of ridiculous but unsure how to proceed. Is Ian here to see him? Why? The last time they saw each other, Mickey acted like a dick and pretty much threw him out.

“Just a Coke, thanks.”

“Got another date tonight?” Mickey asks as he’s pouring it, even though the best option would be to _shut the fuck up_ and take his break now. He’s itching for a smoke.

“Nah”, Ian says easily. The slight quirk of his eyebrow tells Mickey that the question didn’t come across _quite_ as neutral as Mickey meant it to. “This is my sad, lonely celebration night-out. I aced the last exam of the semester.”

“Right, you’re a college boy.”

Ian nods, leans forward. He’s obviously eager to strike up a conversation, like chatting up Mickey is the reason he’s here. Mickey can’t begin to figure out why. “For two years now. I major in English.”

“Shouldn’t you be at a wild college party, then?” Mickey mirrors his movements almost unconsciously.

“I partied enough when I was seventeen”, Ian admits, making a face before he takes a sip. “I’m an old man now.”

It makes Mickey snort. “Okay, grandpa. You’re what, twenty-one?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Fine”, Mickey says, unable to wipe the smile off his face. He’s already hopelessly invested in the conversation, and if he has another customer right now, well. His coworker can probably get them, or they can go thirsty. “And what’re you gonna be when you grow up?”

Ian doesn’t hesitate. “A teacher. I want to motivate kids, you know, help them open doors. Show them they’ve got options. Some of them back home could really use an adult that believes in them.”

It’s exactly the kind of _believe-and-you-can-do-anything_ crap Mickey hates, but there’s a genuine light in Ian’s eyes when he talks about it, like he’s speaking from experience. Like he has actual faith in this shit.

And it’s, fuck. It’s fucking captivating.

Mickey hates how good seeing Ian again feels, how much he wants to hear everything Ian has to say, how just being in the same room awakens something exciting and squirmy in his gut. He knows he should take the magnetic pull for the warning sign that it is.

“South Side? That’s fucking ambitious, I tell you that. Can’t remember any poor motherfucker wasting their time trying to motivate us.”

“Exactly”, Ian says. Then his eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, you’re South Side?”

“What, the tats didn’t clue you in?” Mickey wiggles his fingers.

He’d known, thanks to Ian’s date calling him _South Side trash_ , but it’d taken him laughably long to connect Ian Gallagher with Frank Gallagher, the neighborhood drunk incapable of paying back his debts. He’d constantly been on Mickey’s father’s shit list because of that. So Mickey does remember the family, but he has no recollection of ever interacting with Ian specifically.

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised”, Ian laughs. “Did we like, go to school together? ‘Cause I don’t remember you.”

“Didn’t go to school much. I was always skipping class, or in juvie, until I dropped out. Thought it was bullshit.”

Ian points a finger at him, like _a-ha, got you_. It’s stupidly adorable. “See, that’s why we need teachers like me.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Sure. Ian Gallagher, the superhero South Side so desperately needs.”

Ian’s smile is bright. “Shut up, Mickey- Wait, I still don’t know your last name.”

“Milkovich.”

“Oh, hey”, Ian’s eyes go wide, excited. “I remember your sister, we had some classes together. The rest of you seemed kind of threatening, back then, at least.”

“Yeah”, Mickey says, slightly uneasy, because _threatening_ sounds like a nice thing to say when he thinks about the person he was for most of his teenage years. He’s still not that great of a guy, but the shame of things that happened years ago lingers insistently.

Ian regards him thoughtfully, takes a drink of soda. He seems to sense Mickey’s discomfort, because he doesn’t ask anything else about their shared childhood.

There’s a stretch of silence. Then, valiantly pushing through the awkwardness, Ian says, “So, how’s your week been?”

It brings Mickey back to earth. It’s not a coincidence Ian’s here, and this isn’t a fun little chat between two South Side kids cracking jokes about the neighborhood they grew up in. Ian’s here to pick up where they left off a week ago, despite the cold shoulder Mickey gave him, seemingly for nothing.

“You really wanna talk about my week?” Mickey asks, his obvious unease bleeding into the question. Ian doesn’t answer, just raises his eyebrows in a way that equals a shrug. The non-response only frustrates Mickey. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t- What’s the angle, here?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to be a dick last week, you didn’t-” Mickey lowers his voice just a fraction. He _really_ shouldn’t be discussing his sex life while he’s on the clock. “I had a really good time, but-”

“Could have a good time again”, Ian suggests. It’s straightforward, confident, but there’s an unmistakable tone of jittery hopefulness underneath.

It shouldn’t excite Mickey as much as it does. Of fucking course he wants a repeat performance of last time, wants it so badly he has to take a deep breath in order to not get hard right there behind the bar at work. And what’s more, _Ian_ wants it enough to have come all the way down to this _shithole_ for the possibility of going home with Mickey.

Mickey barely tolerates half the people he sleeps with, and he doesn’t have a problem with never seeing them or their dicks again. He rarely bangs the same guy twice, and never more than that. And he sure as fuck never gets to _know_ anyone. It stays uncomplicated.

Now Ian’s sitting there, smiling and flirting and fucking it all up for Mickey. He’s making Mickey want to go with him as many times as he asks. Mickey’s like a dumbass moth to his copper-red flame.

It’s exactly why Mickey should refuse, tell Ian in no uncertain terms that it was a one-time-only occasion. He shouldn’t get Ian’s hopes up like an asshole when they’ll be inevitably crushed at some point, when he knows for a fact he isn’t cut out for this type of thing.

“Ian, look”, he begins, determined to let Ian down easy. “I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m not-”

He’s cut off by some asshole snapping his fingers at him at the other end of the bar. Mickey has half a mind to tell him to fuck off, but it’s entirely possible that Mickey’s been inadvertently ignoring the guy for a while now.

He grinds his teeth, shoots Ian a look before going over to pour a whole goddamn trayful of shots to the guy and his douchebag friends. By the time he’s done, Ian’s gone, nothing but the empty glass of Coke to indicate he ever was there. Mickey feels surprisingly disappointed, given that this saves him the trouble of telling Ian to go.

Tamping down his bitterness, Mickey picks up the glass to wipe the counter down. He pauses. There’s a folded note under it.

His fingers feel stiff and clumsy when he opens it up. There’s no message, only a phone number in Ian’s neat, round handwriting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're sticking around for the next chapter, here's my [tumblr](https://farfromohio.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't supposed to update today, but I got so excited by the comments that university took a back seat for a day :) So thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who took a chance with this fic!
> 
> Idk if it needs a warning, but brief mention of unhealthy relationship habits in this chapter.

Ian doesn’t expect Mickey to call him. He hopes, sure, but he’d pretty much been shot down the morning after they’d hooked up. It had been disappointing and discouraging, but he’d gotten the impression it’d been more of a personal freak out than anything specific Ian had done.

He’d thought about Mickey that entire week, barely able to concentrate on wrapping up his spring semester, and on Thursday, he’d finally caved.

And Ian’s not desperate. He’s not about to keep chasing after a guy that isn’t interested. If Mickey doesn’t call, then message received, loud and clear. Ian’s worked hard to be the person he is now, independent and confident with who he is. He’s worked _so fucking hard_ to let go of the need for easy validation he’s always gotten from relationships.

He’s a complete, interesting person on his own. Other people don’t get to determine his worth.

It sounds like a mantra a therapist would suggest repeating in front of a mirror, and Ian feels sort of silly speaking it in his head, but it makes it seem more concrete, more solid. It feels good, saying it to himself, when it’s finally started feeling _true_.

This thing with Mickey though, whatever it can be called at this point, doesn’t feel like what he used to do when it came to relationships. The way his entire body responds to the mere thought of Mickey doesn’t have anything to do with his admittedly unhealthy habit of slapping a relationship-shaped band-aid over whatever shit he’s going through. Right now, Ian isn’t going through anything out of the ordinary. He’s doing remarkably well, he’s doing remarkably well _alone_ , and he wants Mickey to call because, for some inexplicable reason, Ian really likes him.

Sometimes people just click, he guesses. That’s certainly what it feels like with Mickey. There’s an effortless connection between them, in the way they talk, the way they joke, the way the _fuck_.

Ian _knows_ Mickey knows it, but it’s another question entirely if Mickey will do anything about it. The ball is in his court now, and all Ian can do is wait, not even schoolwork to distract him. He’s awful at waiting. It’s a Gallagher thing, he thinks, the need to take action and poke and prod at things until they either solve themselves or blow up in your face.

He’s fully prepared to a long, torturous wait that might lead to absolutely nothing but crushing disappointment, given Mickey’s hesitancy the last time they talked. That’s why his surprise is enormous when the wait is over in less than three days.

(1:24 PM) Unknown Number

_You sneaky motherfucker_

He’s been channeling his stress into cleaning his little shoebox of an apartment, so now he’s standing with a vacuum cleaner in his hand, staring at his phone, heart suddenly in his throat. He almost sends back something stupid like _hey, you texted!_ Because there’s nothing more charming than stating the obvious.

Instead, he goes in with self-assurance that hopefully covers up how ridiculously excited and pleased he is, like a schoolboy whose crush just circled the “yes” box in his “do you like me” -note.

(1:36 PM) Ian

_My evil plan worked, huh?_

(1:40 PM) Unknown Number

_Couldn’t get anyone else to take your number outta my hands, so I had to take pity on you and text you myself. Apparently leprechaun-looking schoolteacher isn’t anyone’s type. Sucks to be u man._

It makes Ian chuckle out loud, shake his head. It’s only been a couple of days, but he’s missed Mickey, missed his sense of humor. He types his next text out fast, only considers for a moment before adding a dumb, winking emoji at the end.

(1:41 PM) Ian

_You sure you don’t just have a thing for gingers? It’s alright I won’t tell anyone ;)_

(1:45 PM) Unknown Number

_Lucky I texted your freckled ass_

Mickey sounds through texts exactly like he sounds in real life. It shouldn’t get Ian going, but it kind of does. He shoots two messages in quick succession.

(1:47 PM) Ian

_Yeah, the insults are making me feel real special_

(1:47 PM) Ian

_You saying you’ve been looking at my ass??? No gentlemen left in this world_

(1:50 PM) Unknown Number

_Shut the fuck up before I delete your number. You wanna come over or not_

It makes Ian freeze. He’s not sure what he expected, but he’s quickly learning that beating around the bush isn’t Mickey’s style. He reads the message again. Suddenly, it feels like the vacuuming can wait a while longer.

Ian’s at Mickey’s apartment in record time. He’s jittery with excitement while he’s waiting for Mickey to answer the door, hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep his body still, biting down on his lower lip to keep his smile in check.

_What the hell_ , he thinks, and lets himself smile as wide as he wants to.

Mickey frowns immediately upon opening the door, like Ian smiling alone in the hallway is somehow suspicious. Maybe it is, but Ian’s grin only widens because all he can think about is kissing that frown off that pretty face.

“The fuck are you smiling about?” Mickey asks when Ian backs him into the apartment, pulls the door closed behind them.

“Who knows”, Ian’s hands are settling on Mickey’s waist like they belong there. His body is slotting itself against Mickey’s naturally as they move further into the open space. “Maybe I’m just having a good day.”

The closest flat surface available happens to be the kitchen counter, which is what they end up against. Mickey doesn’t seem to mind the manhandling, or the hard edge of the counter digging into his back. He just tangles a hand in Ian’s hair and pulls a bit too hard, brings Ian’s face close, gaze flicking from Ian’s eyes to his mouth. His tongue pokes put to touch his front teeth. Almost unconsciously, Ian presses against him, because no amount of contact seems to be enough.

“Bet I can make it even better”, Mickey says, voice low with promise.

Ian can’t take any more. He dips down to slot their mouths together, immediately turns it hard and dirty, holding Mickey in place by the back of his head and licking into his mouth. It feels like fucking coming _alive_.

Mickey’s hands find his ass, gripping hard and grinding their dicks together. Even through the layers of clothes, it feels incredible.

“Gonna fuck me, tough guy?” Mickey teases when Ian pulls away to take a breath.

“You always this impatient?” Ian shoots back.

Mickey responds by slipping a hand between their bodies and squeezing Ian’s dick firmly. Ian’s knees buckle.

“Feels like you’re all ready to join the party.”

Ian could probably come with just Mickey’s lips on his and the skilled hand massaging him through his jeans. He doesn’t want to, though, so he grabs Mickey by the wrist, pulls his hand away, spins him around to bend him over the counter. Mickey makes this little breathless noise, half a laugh and half something else.

“Yeah?” Ian asks, holding Mickey in place, trapping him between the hard surface and Ian’s body. “You wanna be fucked?”

Mickey, his palms and elbows against the counter, twists around as much as possible to grin at Ian. “Think we’re gonna have to take this to the bedroom.”

“Nah”, Ian says easily. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a condom and a travel-sized bottle of lube, holds them up for Mickey to see.

Now Mickey definitely laughs, although there’s an obvious note of arousal under it. “Talk about coming prepared. Did you plan this or something?”

Truthfully, Ian had wanted to make absolutely fucking sure they’d get to have sex without any complications. Also, he’d suspected he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off Mickey for longer than a few seconds. He’d been right, it turns out.

“Planned to get inside you as soon as possible”, Ian says, leans down to put his mouth on Mickey’s neck, a brush of lips that turns into a lingering kiss. He doesn’t miss the way Mickey shivers at the contact.

“What the fuck are we still talking for, then?” he grunts.

Ian doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Even though Mickey can’t see it, he rolls his eyes, more fond than actually exasperated. He throws the lube and condom onto the counter to make quick work of unbuttoning Mickey’s jeans, yanking them down around his thighs along with his boxers. Mickey spreads his legs instinctively, and Ian is pleased to find him already hard.

“Have you thought about this?” Ian gets a hand around him, strokes too slow, ignores the way Mickey chases the friction. “Needed it?”

Mickey makes a desperate sound. It’s not a _no_.

Ian needs to be _closer_. He slots his body against Mickey’s back, lips grazing his ear. “Tell me. You need a cock in your ass?”

He usually prefers to communicate with his body; talking dirty feels stunted and cringeworthy with most partners, like he’s lying or executing some sort of performance. But the way Mickey’s entire body is responding to him, honest and open, so at odds with the usual guardedness, makes the words fall out of Ian’s mouth easily.

“Gonna take it like you did last time? So fucking good.”

Mickey pants, head dipping down, falling between his shoulders. “Fuck… Christ, Ian.”

It’s as good an answer as any. Ian fumbles his own jeans open, pulls them down enough to rub his bare dick against Mickey’s ass. He imagines fucking him like that, without a condom, how amazing it’d feel like, wonders if Mickey would let him, at some point.

When Mickey pushes back impatiently, Ian reaches for the lube. As soon as his fingers are slicked up, he presses inside, starting with just one, but Mickey grunts out, “I can take more, c’mon”.

Ian doesn’t need to be told twice. He fingers Mickey open roughly, other hand on his hip to hold him still, marvels at the way Mickey shivers, clenches around him when Ian curls his fingers. He rubs deliberately against Mickey’s prostate, finding it with ease, and can’t hold back a moan when it makes Mickey jerk forward so he’s standing on tiptoes, gripping the side of the counter hard.

It doesn’t take long for Mickey to reach back, grab Ian’s wrist to get him to stop. “I’m fucking good, get your dick in me.”

Ian does, opens the condom clumsily with slick fingers, lubes himself up and pushes in. It’s exactly as good as he remembered, and he has to let out a sharp exhale of relief.

“You good?” he asks, a little breathless.

Mickey nods eagerly, lowers his upper body onto the counter to get the angle right. “Yeah, yeah, get to it.”

“Fuck, Mickey”, Ian can’t help but groan at the first proper thrust. He stares at where their bodies are connected, where Mickey’s ass swallows up his cock like it was made for it. Has he always found that so fucking hot? He can’t be sure, but right now it’s up there with the feeling of it.

Ian doesn’t hold back, and judging by Mickey’s enthusiastic cursing, the way he meets every thrust, it feels better than okay. Ian has to thank some higher power that they fucked face to face that first time, because now he knows what Mickey must look like; face all scrunched up in pleasure, the cutest little furrow between his eyebrows, pink mouth hanging just slightly open. Or maybe he’s biting his lip, like he did last time when Ian managed to aim for his prostate.

It only takes a few minutes until Mickey’s tugging at his own dick, slurring “Gonna come.”

Ian fucks him through it, grip bruising on his hip, only slows down when Mickey stops shaking, stops pushing back against Ian. “Need me to stop?”

“No”, Mickey shakes his head, voice rough but sure. “Keep going.”

And if that isn’t the hottest thing Ian’s ever heard. He groans something that might be Mickey’s name, hauls him off the table into a standing position, their bodies tight against each other. Mickey twists his arm back to hold onto Ian’s hip, to steady himself. Ian picks up the pace again, snaps his hips hard and fast, presses his face into Mickey’s neck to get closer, closer, _closer_.

It’s over fast, and Ian finishes with a strangled moan that sounds like he’s dying, holding Mickey tight. Somehow, they manage to keep their balance even as Ian’s head goes dizzy, even as he has to close his eyes and kiss Mickey’s damp neck to bring himself down from whatever other dimension he’s flown to, relishing the way Mickey leans into the touch.

“Fucking gross”, Mickey groans as soon as they have their clothes back on, inspecting the side of the counter. “Now there’s spunk all over it.”

“And whose spunk is that?” Ian grins. He isn’t too bothered; he’s still riding the post-sex high, and besides, it isn’t _his_ counter.

Mickey must be riding the same high, because his scowl isn’t is deep as usual, and the slap to Ian’s arm feels very half-hearted. “Whose fucking _idea_ was it to have sex in the kitchen?”

“Oh, okay”, Ian laughs, tugs him closer again, “Maybe there’s something wrong with my ears, because I completely missed all of your complaints.”

Mickey’s face softens further, and Ian wants to do something stupid like kiss his nose. That might be taking it a little too far, though, so he settles for pinching Mickey’s side playfully, enjoying the non-sexual closeness now that he gets to have it again.

It doesn’t last long. Maybe there’s too much affection in Ian’s eyes, because Mickey visibly pulls away, retreats back into whatever shell he uses to shield himself when he’s uncomfortable. He pushes Ian’s hand away gently but with clear purpose, steps away to busy himself with wiping down the counter.

“Uh, look”, Mickey says, not looking at Ian. “I’m not… I’m not the dating type. The whole thing, relationships. That’s not me. You should know that.”

It’s kind of what Ian already managed to read between the lines. Hearing it still feels a bit disappointing. Sure. Whatever.

“Lucky for you, I don’t usually consider fucking on the kitchen counter a date.”

Ian’s not-quite-a-lie seems to make Mickey relax a little. He grins, rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Glad we’re on the same page.”

Not wanting to give Mickey time to get his hackles up again, Ian doesn’t linger. He pockets the bottle of lube he brought with him, stops at the door once more before he goes.

“I’ll text you?” It comes out as a question. It _is_ a question, because Ian needs to make sure it’s okay to text, that this wasn’t just a one-time-thing. Which is fucking ridiculous, because Mickey _gave_ him his number, _obviously_ it should be okay to text again, why would-

“Jesus, at least wait ‘til you’re out the door”, Mickey says, but Ian can tell he’s joking. “We gonna make to the bedroom next time?”

Ian doesn’t hesitate. “No promises”, he says, and then he’s gone.

The first thing Ian does when he gets home is finish vacuuming his apartment, probably doing a worse job than normally. Then he sits down on his bed, pulls out his phone to read through the few messages he exchanged with Mickey several times. It’s a bad sign. He can’t suppress a smile while he’s doing it. Another bad sign.

It still says “Unknown Number” above Mickey’s phone number. Ian swipes a thumb over it, considering. He changes it to “Hot Bartender”. Then he changes it to “Mickey Mouse”, and chuckles to himself when he imagines how much Mickey would hate it. Ian pauses, changes it one more time.

Now it just says “Mick”. It feels natural, like a personal name. It sounds like Mickey’s softer side, like something someone who knows all the important and all the trivial things about Mickey would call him.

And fuck. Isn’t that the problem?

Even at this point, Ian can see that he likes Mickey. Likes him outside of the bedroom (or the kitchen), likes him enough to want to know him better. And apparently, Mickey’s not a relationship guy. Which is totally fine, that happens sometimes. It means they’re just two guys who get along great and have fantastic sex together.

Somewhere in the back of his brain, in a part he doesn’t like to listen to, Ian knows he could be setting himself up to get hurt, and maybe he shouldn’t do this. He’s been burned before, burned fucking bad, when he thought he’d-

He squashes the thought down. Ian’s older now. He’s better. Who knows, maybe if they keep hooking up it, keep being around each other it turns out Mickey _is_ a relationship guy after all.

And if he isn’t, so what? They’ll fuck for a while and then go their separate ways. Yeah, okay, it’ll sting for a bit, maybe Ian _really_ likes him already, but he’s an adult, he can handle some disappointment. He’ll get over it.

Everything’s going to be just fucking fine, he decides and puts his phone away before he can read Mickey’s texts again.

He settles into his summer routine. He starts going on runs when he’d normally have morning class. The earlier he’s up, the more he feels like he’s alone, but _good_ alone, like the city is giving him space to breathe, space to exist. No one needs anything from him when he’s sprinting through the streets.

He has more time to go see his family. Everyone except him and Lip still live on the South Side, in the house that’s been their home since forever. Even if Ian has his own life now, his own relationships and aspirations separate from his family, the place will always feel like a home.

He’s able to pick up more shifts at the bookstore where he’s been working for almost a year. It’s never going to make Ian a millionaire, but it pays enough to keep him living off-campus, give him much needed peace and quiet.

And, honestly, it’s not the paycheck that motivates him. The store is a nice, stress-free environment, and most of the customers are elders that prefer hardcovers to e-books, and kids dragging their parents along to buy glitter glue from the craft section.

Ian takes every opportunity to engage the families in conversation, ask the children questions about what they’re interested in, what kind of stories they like best. He loves talking with kids, loves how they see the world and how they can be enthusiastic about anything. The parents are usually very charmed by him, because he’s young and polite and “most kids nowadays barely know how to read if it isn’t from a screen”. Ian can usually convince them to buy a book or two.

Now, in some strange way, Mickey becomes a part of his routine. They start texting. Mostly, they talk about the next time Ian’s going to come over, exchange a few suggestive messages about what they will do to each other when he does. When Ian tries to get an actual sexting situation going, Mickey shuts it down pretty fast. Ian doesn’t mind. Actual sex is better anyways.

“Fucking get on me”, Mickey grunts as soon as they get through the bedroom door, ripping Ian’s t-shirt over his head.

Mickey is always so impatient, eager to get on his hands and knees or ride Ian into the mattress. Like Ian could ever say no. He kicks his jeans off, nearly trips on the way to bed.

Mickey laughs at him, the asshole, hands tight on Ian’s neck, his shoulders. Ian wants to pry them away, stretch them above Mickey’s head, hold his wrists together against the mattress while Ian fucks into him. Wants to see every shift on his face, every half-expression Mickey makes when he feels good.

The straight-to-sex approach feels like a diversion tactic. It’s Mickey keeping a distance between them on purpose, like when he threw Ian out that first time after everything was going so well. Not a relationship guy. And Ian tells himself it’s fine, fine, fine.

But he can’t help it, he just wants to _see_ , see Mickey’s eyes, the shape of his mouth around Ian’s name, see everything Mickey’s feeling when he’s with him. The hand dragging through Ian’s hair sends shivers down his spine.

When he’s leaving, Mickey is propped up on his elbows, still naked except for his boxers, still flushed down to his neck, watching Ian pull on his own clothes. “Friday?”

“If you can wait that long”, Ian says, climbs back between Mickey’s legs, kisses him before he has time to protest, ends it with a filthy swipe of tongue.

He pulls back to find Mickey looking surprised, but not displeased. Maybe even a little more flushed. It makes something inside Ian sing in victory. “Go and take that fucking attitude with you.”

The high feeling stays with Ian the entire day, until he’s in bed, staring up at the ceiling and smiling to himself like an idiot. And then, slowly, it starts to turn into dread.

As soon as the door opens, he gets trapped in a tight embrace, face buried into a head of thick, brown hair.

“Gosh”, Fiona says, pulls back to take Ian’s face into her hands like he’s still fifteen years old. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you?”

Ian takes her wrists gently to guide them away. “Can I come inside to tell you that?”

“Of course”, Fiona laughs and steps aside. “Come in. Lip just got here.”

They try to have a family dinner once or twice a month, but Ian and Lip tend to be so busy during the semester that they sometimes miss each other. They get together often enough, even if it sometimes means hanging out with Lip’s college buddies who Ian would rather avoid like the plague. _Even_ if it means he has to endure Lip’s horrific attempts at finding dates for him.

Now, though, he’s glad they’re both here, because annoying shithead or not, Lip’s his best friend, and Ian could really use someone to talk to.

It’ll have to wait, apparently, because he’s immediately distracted by a flurry of siblings; Debbie asking questions about college and exams and parties, Carl challenging him to a pull-up competition, Liam – _holy shit, the kid’s like a foot taller every time Ian sees him_ – asking him to read over his English homework.

Ian’s stomach is in knots all evening, and the lungful of fresh air when he finally gets to step outside on the porch to have a smoke is a welcome one. It’s just him and Lip now, sitting on the steps. Ian is trying to think of what to say, when his brother, unprompted, offers him an opening.

“Did you ever see that guy again? Uh, Joe?”

“Josh”, Ian corrects him distractedly.

“Yeah, him.”

Ian shoots his brother a look. “Did it seem like we were hitting it off?”

“Dunno”, Lip grins like the asshole he is. “Got the sense he was really into _you_.”

Ian shoves him. Lip, guard down, nearly falls off the stairs. “Tried to let him down easy, he wouldn’t hear it. So I might’ve acted like a dick until he got all pissy and called be trash and then left.”

Lip barks out a laugh. “Ian, you charmer.”

Ian shakes his head, takes a drag, and they fall into silence. Now’s the time to say what he’s been meaning to say, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he has to clench his teeth to get the words out. It never gets any less fucking humiliating, talking about this, but if Lip doesn’t hear it, then no one does.

“But, uh”, Ian begins, and it must sound as strained as it feels, because Lip stills, focus entirely on him. Dammit. “I’ve been seeing this other guy.”

“That’s great”, Lip says, but it sounds careful, like he knows there’s more.

“Or, well. It’s not- It’s not that serious yet.”

Ian’s well aware that it’s sort of a lie, that they’re just supposed to be hooking up. Not a relationship guy. But _maybe_.

Lip nods, lets Ian know he’s listening.

“It’s only been a couple of weeks”, Ian says. He stares at his feet determinedly, keeps saying words, tries not to think too much so that his throat doesn’t close up around them. “I just keep thinking about him, all the time. I wanna know everything about him. I get so fucking excited when he texts. I’m distracted at work, I can’t even remember the last time I had this much fun with someone, shit, I-”

His voice hitches, and the words die. Ian rubs a palm across his face, shoulders hunching a little.

Lip’s silence doesn’t me he didn’t understand. It means he’s giving Ian time to get ready for an answer.

“And you think it might mean you’re manic.” It’s not a question.

Ian blows out a breath, makes himself nod. He doesn’t think he is, but he _never_ thinks he is. It’s just a _lot_.

Even when they’re not together, Ian feels Mickey’s hands on his skin, tries to recall in detail that little gasp Mickey lets out when Ian’s mouth is on his dick. It stays with him at work. More than once, he’s had to think about the toothless, saggy methhead he once caught Frank screwing in their kitchen to keep from popping a boner in front of a customer.

Mickey’s just there, suddenly intertwined with every part of Ian’s day, his morning runs, his workdays, his nights alone in his apartment.

This thing has jostled his life a lot harder than he expected, and yeah, okay, it’s probably been creeping onto him ever since the night they first met, but that’s the thing he fucking _hates_. He doesn’t always know how his brain works, he can’t retrace the steps like he should be able to. Can’t tell if continuously thinking about the man you’re madly attracted to is normal or not.

“Have you been taking your meds?” Lip asks.

There’s no judgement in his voice, but Ian snaps, “You fucking know I have.”

Lip holds up his hands in defense. “Just making sure. Have you talked to your shrink?”

Ian shakes his head, looks down again. “I really don’t want to. Well. Don’t want to have to.”

He sounds defeated. He stares hatefully at his shoelaces, listens as Lip hums in understanding and stubs out his cigarette.

“I don’t think you’re acting like you’re manic right now. But Ian”, he says, and it’s firm enough to make Ian look up. “Call your therapist. Tomorrow morning. Go make sure, okay? I’m not a medical professional.”

Yeah. That’s about what he expected Lip to say. It’s what he knows he should do. Maybe he needed to hear someone else say it in order to keep himself from talking himself out of it.

“Hey”, Lip claps a hand onto his shoulder, squeezes once. “You got this. Figure your shit out. I’ll check on you.”

“Fuck”, Ian groans. “Shit. I know. Not a word to Fiona.”

Lip mimes zipping his mouth shut. Before they go back inside, he turns to Ian with half a smile. “You know, I’m willing to bet you’re just head over heels and you forgot what it feels like. Hope it works out with that guy.”

_Me too_ , Ian thinks. He does, more than he’d like to admit. Someone might’ve accused him of being too hopeful at one point or another.

* * *

The arrangement is a good one. A simple, clean one; they see each other a couple times a week, spend most of their time together fucking. Sometimes, if they have time, they manage to squeeze in two rounds, filling the time between with stupid jokes and jabbing at each other verbally. That easy banter between orgasms, the so-good-it’s-bordering-on-sick feeling Mickey gets in his stomach is always when he starts to doubt the whole thing, starts to doubt if it’s so simple after all. It makes him think that maybe he should just man up and call it off.

As soon as Ian goes, though, Mickey talks himself out of it. It’s fucking fine. They’re fine like that, just hooking up every now and then. At some point, Ian will end it, or Mickey will end it, and they’ll both get it, go their separate ways without any hard feelings. That’s how these things end, right?

Right.

Too soon, it becomes apparent that maybe Mickey doesn’t have as firm a grip on the thing as he’s convinced himself he does. It shouldn’t catch him off guard, but it does, which seems to be a trend with Ian.

Ian starts making conversation after sex, just little remarks and jokes and stupid questions about anything and everything. Mickey, mind and body relaxed, makes the mistake of going along with it.

“How’d you become a bartender?” Ian asks on a Tuesday, trying to flatten his obvious sex-hair, using the front camera of his phone as a mirror.

“I don’t fucking know, man”, Mickey says. “Accident, I guess. I didn’t plan on being one.”

Ian quirks an eyebrow. “Not a childhood dream?”

“Fuck no.”

“What was?”

“Huh?”

“Your childhood dream?” Ian clarifies. “What’d you wanna be when you grew up?”

_Alive_ , Mickey thinks. Even that used to feel like a pipe dream, sometimes. Out loud, he says, “Nothing. Didn’t waste my time thinking about stupid shit like that.”

It makes Ian roll his eyes. “Jesus. Anyone ever tell you what a great conversationalist you are? Everyone has a childhood dream, even a weird one. An astronaut, a racecar driver. My brother Carl wanted to be a cyborg ninja until he was like ten years old.”

“I don’t know what you want from me”, Mickey says, sort of irritated at the prodding. “I like what I do, what’s the point of pining after something else? Things went how they went, can’t change them now if I wanted to.”

“Fine”, Ian throws his hands up, annoyed as well. “Just fucking asking.”

The silence is tense, both of them staring at the opposite walls of Mickey’s bedroom. Goddamn it, he has no obligations to answer any dumbass questions Ian throws his way. Everything he shares, every fucking detail he hears about Ian’s life complicates shit, and that’s what Mickey certainly doesn’t need. His shit is complicated enough as it is.

Mickey breathes deep, gathers the sheet into his fists, clenches as hard as he can.

“What, was your childhood dream teaching stupid little South Side criminals to read?”

He can almost feel Ian’s annoyance draining against his will. He shifts on the bed to look at Mickey. “No. I, uh. Wanted to be in the army.”

Mickey can feel his eyebrows shoot up. Not the answer he was expecting. “The army?”

“It’s a long story”, Ian says, smiling self-consciously, like it’s also a somewhat embarrassing story. “Guess I wanted to be a hero. I did junior ROTC as a kid, some shit happened along the way, now I’m here.”

It sounds like there are some pretty important blanks to fill in that description, but Mickey leaves it. The less personal shit he knows, the better. “If you ask me, it takes more balls to face a bunch of teenagers every day than get your legs blown off in some desert somewhere. I didn’t even finish high school.”

At that, Ian’s smile might turn a bit more genuine. “Could always go back. I did.”

Mickey turns to him fully. “Wait, you didn’t finish high school?”

“Shit happened”, Ian repeats, like a practiced line. Mickey waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “Went back and got my GED when I was twenty.”

“Good for you”, Mickey says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s genuinely impressed. He doesn’t think he could ever go back. Maybe it’s just the South Side, the memories of it, other stuff he doesn’t want to go back to, but still.

“You could do that too”, Ian continues. “Even if you’re working. Just saying, it opens up a lot of options.”

It’s too personal already, dreams and aspirations and fucking _options_. Mickey doesn’t want to hear it, certainly not from someone who’s already clearly got better things going on for him than Mickey does. “Hey, how about you save the pep-talks for the classroom, okay?”

Maybe he doesn’t sound too harsh, because Ian just shrugs. “Gotta practice somewhere.”

“Yeah, well, your words of inspiration are wasted on me.”

Ian shakes his head, looking soft in a way that dislodges something unidentifiable inside Mickey’s chest. He’s not sure if the feeling is a good one.

Usually when he’s at work, he doesn’t think about much else than work, but Ian’s quickly becoming an ever-present piece of his everyday life. Mickey catches himself checking his phone during the slower hours, and he knows damn well there aren’t many people who would randomly text him during his shift.

There aren’t many people who’d get an answer from him.

(8:17 PM) Ian

_So today this little girl asked me about princess books and I told her she might like Snow White because she looks just like her_

(8:18 PM) Ian

_She told me thanks and that I look like a pumpkin_

It makes Mickey laugh, Ian being insulted by children at work, especially as he can tell Ian clearly has a great time being insulted by children at work. Even his part-time job revolves around books and kids. If anyone’s cut out for this teaching shit, it’s probably Ian.

(8:56 PM) Mickey

_Better hope she was talking about your hair and not your measurements_

(8:58 PM) Ian

_You’d know all about my measurements ;)_

It’s fucking stupid and lame, and Mickey walked right into that one. Still, it makes his face heat up, makes a pleased smile pull at the corners of his mouth. Ian’s so unashamedly dorky, and Mickey’s almost embarrassed for thinking finding any of that shit funny.

Before he has the chance to send back _fuck off_ or something equally poetic, his coworker walks past and sees the look on his face.

“No nasty business at work, Milkovich”, she scolds him, laughing. Mickey hides the phone’s screen automatically when she comes closer. “Text your sweetheart later.”

Either she doesn’t notice how Mickey’s eyes go wide at that, or she doesn’t care. He shoves his phone back into his pocket without texting back.

Having the same background means having more than a little history together, which in turn makes _not_ finding things to talk about nearly impossible. It’s a connection Mickey doesn’t think he’d find with anyone who isn’t from the South Side, and it makes the pull towards Ian even harder to resist.

The thing is, Ian’s not just some sweet, wide-eyed English major who wants to help underprivileged kids.

He’s kind of fucking badass. Brash, brave, probably intimidating as hell when he wants to be, with his muscled arms, those broad shoulders squared. It could be that Mickey’s a little messed up, but the image is nearly enough to make him pop a boner.

Mickey hears admittedly hilarious stories about the crazy shit Ian’s family got up to, the almost Milkovich-level scamming and stealing, about the literal fight club he frequented with his brother one summer. Ian’s relationship with his siblings has clearly always been better than Mickey’s with his own, but Ian does mention, abashedly, the time when he apparently almost murdered Lip for getting a recommendation to West Point instead of Ian.

They laugh about the stuff that went on around the neighborhood. Many of the most insane things seemed to be related to Frank’s drunken adventures. There’s hilarious shit, and there’s some really horrible shit. Some of it feels like a fever dream now, and Mickey can’t quite believe he used to live like that, _all the time_. Maybe he was less of a pussy when he was a kid, because he’s not sure how he’d do it now.

They talk about Mandy a bit, the stuff Ian remembers from school. Mickey doesn’t have much recent news for him; by the time Mickey took off, Mandy was already long gone, probably shacking up with her latest piece of shit boyfriend. He should’ve done something to stop her, maybe, but to be fair, he had his own shit to deal with at the time. They text every now and then, wish each other around birthdays and Christmas, but never share many details about their lives.

“I’m sure she’s okay”, Ian says, like he knows what Mickey’s thinking. “She always seemed like a fighter.”

It’s a simple, stupid thing to say, as if Ian actually knows anything about him or Mandy, but it makes Mickey swallow, makes him dip his head and look away. Another thing that has him feeling like Ian’s under his skin.

Mickey thinks what it would have been like if they knew each other as kids. Would they have hated each other? Would they have ended up fucking? Mostly, Mickey suspects it’s a good thing their paths didn’t cross, considering how he was back then. Knowing him certainly wouldn’t have improved Ian’s life in any way.

He shakes that thought away. Now, Ian is in his life, one way or another. Mickey watches him, on his back next to Mickey, distracted with something on his phone. He’s got sheets pulled up to his waist, bare chest rising and falling rhythmically, still a little flushed and sweaty. It looks damn inviting, but more in the way that Mickey just wants to press his face into it, see how he fits against Ian’s side, how Ian’s arm would settle around him.

Ian must feel him staring because he lowers his phone. Mickey rolls over, not as close as he wants to, but close enough to sneak a hand under that sheet.

“Shit, sorry I’m late”, is the first thing Ian says when Mickey lets him in. “Got held up at work, I had to unpack and shelve this new order of books we got today-”

“Yeah, yeah, get in here.”

Mickey doesn’t point out that Ian isn’t really late, because it isn’t a date and therefore Ian doesn’t _have_ to be here at any specific time. He retreats back to the couch to finish the dinner he heated up while waiting; Hot Pockets, because while he’s technically a grown man, he can’t be bothered to be one every day.

Ian flops down next to him, stretching his fucking giraffe limbs. Mickey’s eyes are naturally drawn to the bare skin of his stomach under the hem of his shirt, the coarse, orange hairs right below his navel.

He can’t help but think how good Ian looks on his ratty second-second-hand couch, almost as good as he looks in his bed. Mickey’s getting too used to Ian being here, he can tell, because now he notices when Ian _isn’t_.

It’s been five days since they last saw each other, which is really not that long, especially considering that normally Mickey has no one to keep him company in the hours between work and sleep. Now, Mickey had found himself wondering that the hell he usually does to fill his time.

Ian was supposed to be here on Monday, but he’d cancelled the previous night, texting Mickey that he had a doctor’s appointment he had forgotten. The news had ignited a spark of worry in Mickey, though he’d tried to push it down. A doctor’s appointment could mean anything, basically.

_Alright_ , he’d texted back.

After approximately twelve minutes of restless fidgeting, he’d ended up shooting another message. _Everything cool?_

Ian had replied almost immediately, assuring Mickey it’d be nothing more than a routine check-up.

Now Ian’s here, in Mickey’s living space again like it’s just been waiting for his arrival to feel warm and cozy. Ian’s here, watching Mickey eat a Hot Pocket like that’s totally normal, and Mickey’s watching him right back with hungry eyes, like Ian might disappear any moment.

And shit. The feeling spreads from his stomach to his limbs, comes up his throat like bile. Mickey has _missed_ him, fuck’s sake.

He’s missed Ian after less than a week apart, like some needy teenage bitch, which means he’s definitely losing his shit.

When Ian leans closer, all slow and lazy, Mickey lets him. Doesn’t grab him and pull him down like he’s usually itching to. Ian’s shaken everything up, done some unspeakable thing to make Mickey miss him, and Mickey wants all of him, right fucking now, as much as he can get before Ian leaves again. Ian seems to take full advantage, brushing his fingers across Mickey’s cheek, touching their lips together so lightly it almost doesn’t even count as a kiss.

Another, deeper one, Ian’s mouth closing around his lower lip, nose pressing into Mickey’s cheek. Mickey doesn’t move at all, only tightens his fist into the fabric of Ian’s shirt.

Slow, slow, Ian presses him sideways into the cushions so that his one leg is curled against the back of the couch, the other flat on the floor. Ian between his open thighs, testing the waters, sliding a hand under Mickey’s shirt.

“Good?” Ian asks, kisses him again.

Mickey doesn’t answer. He presses his mouth firmly to Ian’s, curls an arm around his muscled back to bring him impossibly closer.

It makes Ian break the kiss and laugh into the space between them. “Missed me?”

Joke’s on Mickey, apparently, because he has, and _God_ is it fucking with him.

“Shut up”, he says. “Gonna fuck me anytime soon?”

“No”, Ian says, and then his mouth is latching onto the spot between Mickey’s face and jaw, forcing Mickey to tip his head back against the armrest.

Mickey thinks he maybe should protest that, but his brain is quickly turning into useless mush. Everything feels too good; Ian’s mouth, his hand pushing Mickey’s shirt up, smoothing slow circles onto Mickey’s abdomen.

It feels like the kind of shit you’re supposed to do in high school; bring a cute boy home, make out on the couch like the awkward teenagers you are. Not Mickey. He’s never done anything like that. He was barely in high school to begin with, and he never wasted any time kissing any of the people he banged. With girls, the task was unpleasant enough without any additional activities, and with guys avoiding kissing meant avoiding attachment.

And as for bringing people home-

Mickey shudders, shakes the thought away before Ian catches on. He focuses on the sensations, presses himself harder into Ian’s touch to keep from floating away.

He makes some kind of a noise, maybe, because Ian’s breath is hot in his ear, asking, “Yeah? That feel nice?”

“Come on”, Mickey gasps, brings a hand to bury his fingers into Ian’s hair. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, but Ian seems to be going somewhere with this. He _trusts_ Ian to go somewhere with this.

“Okay”, Ian agrees. His voice gets a little lower, a little breathier when Mickey tugs his hair, and the sound vibrates down Mickey’s spine.

Ian works his sweatpants open, tugs them down as far as he can with his legs spread like that. Mickey watches him do it, the contrast of his own tattooed fingers in Ian’s bright locks, the pink spots on Ian’s cheeks, matching the kiss-raw lips. He likes the picture, likes it even more in full daylight.

Mickey’s feeling weird and off-kilter today, and Ian is somehow more intense than usual as well. He slides down Mickey’s body to press a kiss onto his stomach, right above the elastic band of his boxers. The sensation of teeth grazing his skin makes goosebumps break all over Mickey’s body. Ian doesn’t even take his dick out, just cups it through Mickey’s underwear, palm big and warm and perfect.

Mickey grinds against him, can’t help it, and the word _please_ is right on the tip of his tongue. He can’t even tell at which point he became hard, but he is, and judging by the _something_ pressing into his leg, Ian is too.

“No, wait”, Mickey says when Ian dips down lower, words forming completely without his own approval. “Come here.”

It takes a second for the message to sink in, but when it does, Ian surges up, cupping Mickey’s face in one hand, the other finally shoving his underwear out of the way. Mickey honest-to-god whines at the feeling of Ian’s fingers wrapping around him.

Ian jerks him off with firm, sure strokes. Mickey keeps him close with a rough hand in his hair, slots their lips together as well as he can, kisses Ian’s mouth shakily. He can barely tear himself out of it enough to jam his hand down Ian’s pants.

“Fuck, that feels good, don’t stop”, Ian keeps saying, rutting desperately into his hand, obviously pleased even if Mickey feels like he’s being sloppy.

He squeezes his eyes shut when he comes, breathing hard, willing the uncomfortable neediness to leave his body along with his orgasm.

As they’re pulling their pants back up, Mickey tries to stop himself from, again, considering the endless list of reasons why it’s a terrible idea to keep doing this.

At the top, written in red, glaring letters, is the fact that he likes it _so, very much_. When he likes something enough, it always turns to shit eventually. Mickey’s not stupid. He knows they’re supposed to be hooking up, fuckbuddies and nothing more. It isn’t working that well, for either of them.

There’s a part of Mickey that’s feeling incredibly guilty about keeping it up. He knows Ian wants commitment and emotional fucking intimacy, and Mickey… is kind of lightyears away from that. He knows how it’d end, with him fucking it up. He feels like he’s leading Ian on, even if he technically isn’t. It doesn’t change the fact that Ian will be inevitably hurt when he pulls away.

And maybe, maybe the _other_ thing has crossed his mind. The not-pulling-away thing. Maybe he’s allowed the thought to linger sometimes, like something breakable and unattainable.

Maybe he’s pictured something like that first night, when Ian accidentally slept over, in Mickey’s bed. Something like that, but instead of waking up in panic, Mickey rolls onto his side, lets Ian drape an arm over his waist, falls asleep again to warm breath against the back of his neck.

He must be silent a bit too long, because Ian taps him on the shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Nothing”, Mickey waves him away. He can’t shake it off completely, but it’s been a weird couple of weeks, and Ian’s closeness both doesn’t help and helps immensely. He gets up, walks to the fridge to get himself a beer. “You want?”

Mickey doesn’t like soda unless it’s paired with booze, but now there’s an opened six-pack of Coke on the middle shelf. Ian doesn’t drink much beer for whatever reason, maybe he gets enough at all those college parties, and he comes over often enough that Mickey started feeling kind of shitty about not having anything to offer him.

“Thanks”, Ian reaches out a hand, settles on the couch. The post-orgasm glow suits him.

“So how’d the doctor shit go?” Mickey asks to distract himself from the fact that Ian hasn’t bothered to zip up his jeans at all.

“The- yeah”, Ian says, surprised. “Yeah, that. It went well. Just routine, like I said.”

Mickey hums, takes a long swig of beer. No follow-up questions, because he really doesn’t need to give Ian a reason to tease him about worrying. Mickey’s transparent enough about missing him, apparently.

Half of Ian’s face is hidden behind the soda can, but there’s no disguising his pleased expression. He lifts one leg completely on the couch, stretches it until his toes are grazing Mickey’s thigh.

Mickey glares. Ian jabs him with his foot, hard.

“The fuck is your problem?” Mickey asks, but it’s without any real heat.

“No problem”, Ian says. Then, after a beat. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s been like five days, man”, Mickey points out, even though it feels like five days too many.

Ian jabs him again. “What, you mean you _haven’t_ been pining after me this entire time?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Like _you_ have time to pine after my ass while you’re reading bedtime stories to those little ankle-biters at work.”

“I write poems about you during lunchbreaks”, Ian says, completely straight-faced.

“Shut the fuck up”, Mickey laughs, grabs Ian’s ankle to avoid being jabbed a third time. “You’re such a nerd. Remind me again why I slept with you instead of stealing your lunch money?”

Ian puts his Coke down, neutral expression morphing into something delighted. He crawls closer, places his hands onto Mickey’s thighs. His palms radiate warmth even through the sweatpants.

“You need a reminder already?”

It’s too soon to get to the second round of fucking, but Mickey lets Ian kiss him anyway, lets him slowly tease his mouth open with his tongue. Mickey’s chest tightens with that feeling again. He wants it gone, and he doesn’t.

“You free on Saturday then, John Keats?” Mickey asks when they pull apart.

Ian’s eyebrows go up. “And _I’m_ the nerd?”

“You free or not, dickhead?”

“Can’t do Saturday”, Ian says, apologetic. “Sorry. I’ve got dinner plans with someone. Sunday’s good, though.”

He looks at Mickey like he’s expecting a confirmation on that, and Sunday would be _great_ , except Mickey’s kind of stuck on the part where Ian said he’s got dinner plans with someone.

It’s shouldn’t be a surprise, really, that Ian dates, since it’s exactly what they’re _not_ doing. Mickey would be an idiot to think that a guy like Ian didn’t have practically a line of dudes waiting for a chance to take him out. In fact, Mickey should be ecstatic, because Ian finding a good boyfriend candidate would put an end to Mickey’s internal conflict. It’d mean he wouldn’t have to let Ian down.

He’s not ecstatic. The feeling in his chest curls into something slimy and ugly.

“Mickey?”

Ian’s still looking at him, brow furrowed.

“Yeah”, Mickey grunts out. “Sure. Sunday’s great.”

Ian’s quick to pick up on the shift in the mood. “Hey. What’s up?”

Mickey shifts a little, sits up so he can put some distance between them.

“Nothing’s up”, he says, speaking to his knees rather than Ian. He’s suddenly irritated and embarrassed, pissed off that he set himself up for this like some fucking idiot. “You sure you wanna do Sunday?”

He can almost hear Ian’s frown deepening. “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

Yeah, sure, who wouldn’t feel weird about scheduling their dates and their hookups on consecutive days.

“Just. Maybe it’s not- Well. Whatever.”

“No, hold up”, Ian leans closer again, brushes his knuckles against Mickey’s thigh. “Not whatever. You were fine like a second ago, and now it’s like someone pissed in your breakfast cereal.”

“Yeah, okay”, Mickey snaps and pushes Ian’s hand away. His stomach is churning. He kind of wants to punch himself in the face. This is exactly how it was supposed to go. He didn’t know it would make him feel like he’s a piece of trash getting traded for something better, shinier.

“Seriously?” Ian says, now more annoyed than confused. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Look”, Mickey makes himself say, makes himself look at Ian, swallow down the glob of anger and self-loathing. What the hell did he expect to happen? For Ian to hang around forever at his beck and call, happy with sex and stupid flirting and the occasional actual conversation, without any real commitment because Mickey’s such a fucking pussy? Of course fucking not. “It’s cool, man. Just tell me if it gets serious, and we’ll call this off. You don’t really owe me anything. I shouldn’t be a fucking dick about this.”

Ian blinks at him. “If- What? If what gets serious?”

“The- Your fucking date! The guy you’re seeing on Saturday.”

“Mickey”, Ian says, incredulous. “Jesus fucking Christ. I’m having dinner with one of my friends from college. With a girl.”

Oh.

Mickey’s embarrassment increases tenfold. He literally feels himself flush all the way down to his chest with how mortified he is.

“Fuck”, is all he can say.

Ian shakes his head. “Yeah, ‘fuck’, you idiot. Maybe next time ask me before you get all pissy.” He pauses, exasperation mixing with amusement. “You’re jealous.”

“Fuck you is what I am”, Mickey says. His face is flaming, his defenses going up. He _is_ a fucking idiot.

“Yeah?” Ian says. He’s not angry, _yet_ , but it’s probably safe to say that he’s a little pissed off. “How is it that we’re not dating, but you get jealous if I go out with someone else?”

“I’m not fucking jealous. And I thought you were fine with not dating.”

“I am!” Ian cries. “I am fine! But dating and not-dating are kind of different things that come with different rules, and I would fucking love to know which rules I’m following here!”

“Jesus, I’m not stopping you from going out with someone else.”

“No, but you’re apparently gonna be a bitch about it.”

“I told you right from the start what it was gonna be.”

“And you’re doing a shit job backing up your own words”, Ian snaps.

Mickey grinds his teeth. “Let it the fuck go. Forget I said anything. You’re free to do whatever.”

“Fine, alright”, Ian huffs, crossing his arms. “Your way. Let’s not talk about anything.”

There’s a long stretch of silence. They sit stubbornly on the opposite ends of the couch, not looking at each other. Mickey’s embarrassment-fueled anger drains from him slowly, and he’s left feeling like a complete asshole. What’s fucking new.

He knows what his issue is. They both do, to some extent. It shouldn’t be that difficult to say it out loud, and if he owes Ian something, it’s honesty. It’s not Ian’s fault how fucked up Mickey is.

“Ian”, he starts. Ian doesn’t say anything, only juts his chin out stubbornly. “I know, alright? You’re not- I shouldn’t be blowing up at you about this.”

It’s definitely not an award-winning apology. Still, it’s the most Mickey can say without spilling everything dirty and ugly on the couch between them.

Ian sighs, a long exhale that sounds like exhaustion and frustration. “I just want us to be on the same page here.”

Mickey knows. He gets it. He wants it too.

They don’t yell at each other any more, but things are weird and the conversation feels stilted enough that Ian leaves soon after. They don’t mention the weekend again. When Ian’s out the door, the apartment somehow feels even more unwelcoming and cold than it did before his arrival.

Mickey can’t stand looking at it. He gets another beer from the fridge, downs it in five gulps, then grabs a third one and slumps back down on the couch. He sits there for what seems like hours, feeling sorry for himself.

This is what it’d feel like, being alone again. This, except a hundred times worse. Nothing’s going how he wanted it to. He almost wishes he could call Mandy, or someone who isn’t as intent on ruining his life as he is, demand they tell him what to do.

Shit.

He rubs a hand over his face, thinks about for once not doing the safe thing, but the one that holds even a microscopic promise of happiness.

Fuck it.

He’s already kind of drunk, on which he blames it when he picks up his phone (he _has_ been sitting there for hours) and sends a text.

(9:43 PM) Mickey

_Hey, wanna grab dinner on Sunday?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://farfromohio.tumblr.com/) here, feel free to yell at me there or whatever :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I increased the number of chapters because there was just Too Much going on at once in this story. So four more short chapters instead of two long ones, and I'm pretty sure they all will be up by the end of the week :)

Despite everything, the therapy appointment had left Ian feeling infinitely better. He’d been advised to come back in a couple of weeks for an update, but after listening to Ian fumble through a shortened version of how he’d first started seeing Mickey and try to explain the intensity of his feelings, his therapist had basically echoed Lip’s earlier words. That in this case, Ian probably has nothing to fear, and that it’s completely understandable that he would be a little freaked out after going so long without being genuinely attracted to anyone.

Ian had left the office with his chest feeling lighter, convinced that his meds weren’t failing, and his head wasn’t messing with him. It’d been easier to breathe, easier to let himself feel giddy and excited about Mickey again. He’d relaxed into it again, days sliding by without an alarming change. After his follow-up appointment, Ian had been fully assured that all the worrying had been over nothing.

It’d been enough to make him push the ever-present worry that he’s maybe falling too fast and fucking himself over in the process to the back of his mind, enough to boost him into a high of unwavering confidence.

Then, of course, something _else_ had come up and he had spent one afternoon torn between being seriously pissed off by Mickey’s hypocritical jealousy bullshit and being pleased because it’d been one more sign that Mickey just needs to work through something when it comes to dating. More proof that it isn’t Ian being delusional, that Mickey does want more but insists on being difficult about it.

And then,

(9:43 PM) Mick

_Hey, wanna grab dinner on Sunday?_

The text message had done a pretty good job evaporating the last traces of Ian’s irritation. It had seemed pretty straightforward, Mickey asking him out after an argument they had about dating, and Ian can’t quite talk himself out of getting his hopes up.

It’s definitely a date, right?

Maybe his judgement is clouded when it comes to Mickey, but it could be a start.

They meet at seven on Sunday, at a cozy little pizza place near where Mickey works. Mickey’s standing outside on the curb when Ian arrives, shifting uneasily on his feet. Ian has a fleeting thought of a teenage boy on his first date. There’s definitely still lingering awkwardness from last time as they exchange greetings and go inside.

After watching Mickey eye him guiltily from across the table for way too long, Ian cracks some stupid joke about the unfortunate lack of dick at the last dinner he went to. It makes Mickey huff out a small laugh, which, in turn, sends Ian’s heart soaring.

“A real shame you’re not the dating type”, he says when he’s about halfway through his pizza. “‘Cause this would’ve been kind of an awesome date.”

He has the pleasure of watching Mickey flush and avoid his gaze. “Jesus.”

“Mickey”, Ian presses. He doesn’t want to make Mickey uncomfortable, as this is clearly difficult for him, but he also isn’t interested in playing any games. He’s had enough of that to last a lifetime. “This isn’t some guys’ night out, right?”

Mickey huffs, turns back to Ian. “I guess that’s not what you want it to be.”

“You know what I want it to be.”

Mickey sighs, presses his fingers to his temples. “Ian. I meant it when I said don’t do this crap. I don’t know how to do any of it.”

“Nobody’s expecting you to be perfect-”

“I’m twenty fucking three years old. I’ve never been on a date. Ain’t very fucking promising.”

“Hey”, Ian says, voice low, and kicks Mickey’s ankle gently under the table to get him to meet his eyes. “Can we make this your first?”

“Look”, Mickey says. He’s having trouble maintaining eye contact, thumb rubbing the palm of his other hand. Ian keeps their legs pressed together. “I can’t promise you shit. I can- I don’t know. Make a fucking effort. I can get dinner with you, but we’re not fucking married.”

He says it like he’s actually worried Ian is going to drop down onto one knee right then and there and pop a ring from his pocket. Maybe it shouldn’t be funny, but Ian laughs, maybe because of the lingering, childish glee from getting to have this pizza date.

“Well, don’t worry. Usually I don’t propose until the third date.”

The joke takes some of the tension away from Mickey’s face. Ian finds he really likes it, having that effect on him. Sometimes he’s like a spooked animal, and Ian wants to still him and smooth his hands across Mickey’s back until he’s calm and relaxed.

“Well”, Mickey echoes, blows out a breath. “That’s good to know.”

Maybe Ian should push more, demand something solid, but he doesn’t care. He was right. It’s a start, a step forward. An effort, like Mickey said.

They finish their pizzas in relative silence. When they step outside, Mickey starts looking uneasy again, and it doesn’t take much to guess what the issue is. This is the first time they’ve been somewhere together without the primary goal of getting each other naked, and suddenly it isn’t completely clear what comes next.

It’s a night of steps forward, Ian figures, and decides to take one more.

“You wanna come back to my place tonight?”

Mickey looks up, startled, and Ian hurries to continue. “If you want, it’s not- I mean, it’s a little further, but we could take the L-”

Mickey stops him with a raised hand, fingers barely grazing the fabric of Ian’s t-shirt. “Calm your fucking tits. Yeah, we can go to your place.”

Ian’s jaw clicks shut in surprise. Okay.

They take the train (Mickey tells him he was over twenty years old the first time he actually paid for a ticket instead of jumping the turnstile), sit together in a near-empty car, their knees knocking together as the train moves and shakes. It feels good, casual and intimate, and by the time they’re at Ian’s apartment, his heart is jumping against his ribcage in dumb excitement.

Mickey’s been sort of quiet, and as soon as soon as the door clicks shut behind them Ian attempts to calm his nerves by taking the familiar route, crowding him against the wall and leaning in for a kiss. It feels like that first night he took Ian home, when they did the same thing, kissed in the hallway as soon as they got to Mickey’s apartment. Only now there’s something bigger, real and tangible between them.

Mickey doesn’t have any objections. He pulls Ian’s face down eagerly, hands firm and pads of his thumbs rough on Ian’s cheeks. Ian loses his balance for a bit, braces a hand flat on the wall, the other finding its way to Mickey’s waist. It’s so easy, so good, the relief astronomical after the stupid fight they had last time. Ian’s been _aching_ to touch Mickey again.

It feels as if Mickey’s been just as desperate, because he’s attacking Ian’s mouth in a second, dragging a tongue along his filthily, teeth sharp like a fucking piranha’s on his bottom lip. It’s slow despite the heat, every sensation like a spark going down Ian’s spine.

They pause when Ian pulls back, opens his eyes. They didn’t bother turning on the lights when they came in, and the apartment is dark, but he can still almost count Mickey’s eyelashes from this close. Mickey blinks up at him. His hand has slipped from Ian’s face to his neck, and Ian is sure he can feel the wild thrum of his pulse against his fingers.

“Hey”, Ian says, squeezes Mickey’s waist lightly, reassuringly. “Not that different from what we’ve been doing, right?”

Mickey’s brows furrow. “I know I’m new to this, but you don’t gotta treat me like your high school prom date.” He only sound somewhat annoyed, though, and after a moment he adds, “No, guess it’s not that different.”

It makes Ian smile, a little twitch of mouth he knows Mickey will be able to see. “So. You put out on the first date?”

Then Mickey is shoving him backwards with a groan, the slight annoyance replaced by pretend-annoyance, and Ian is laughing aloud with how happy he is.

“Come on”, he says, pulls Mickey into the bedroom.

This part is easy, natural. The shoving and playful wrestling shifts to Ian pressing Mickey into the sheets and peeling his clothes off, making sure to let his hands linger on every inch of Mickey’s skin like it’s the first time they get to have each other. Mickey kisses him again and again, fingers tracing the angles of Ian’s face, the nape of his neck.

They fuck face to face again, neither of them saying much, Ian looking down at Mickey in silent wonder until he’s pulled closer again, until Mickey locks him in place with strong arms and legs, warm and safe and secure. Ian never wants to leave.

“How’s that for a prom date?” Mickey asks when Ian rolls off of him.

Ian laughs, turns to lay on his side so he can look at Mickey, all sweaty and sated and smiley. “Probably better than it would’ve been in high school.”

“Probably. I don’t think I even know anyone who’s ever been to prom.”

Ian _hmm_ s. He doesn’t, either. At this point, the only Gallagher sibling that has actually finished high school is Lip, and the thought of him at a prom is just plain ridiculous.

Mickey folds his arms behind his head, amused. “You’ll get another chance in a few years. Well, you won’t have any fun ‘cause you’ll be chaperoning.”

“You sure? ‘Cause chaperones get to bring dates, too. Maybe we’ll just sneak off to the bathroom to make out and let the kids spike the punch.”

“Uh-huh, yeah.”

The imaginary date in this imaginary prom is Mickey, of course it is, kissing Ian against the stall door in a school bathroom, grumbling and rolling his eyes when Ian asks him to dance. Like maybe Mickey will still be around at that point in the future. Maybe they’ll make this dating thing work, maybe Ian’s finally latched onto someone who’ll stick around. The thought sends Ian’s stomach spinning, equal parts scary and exhilarating.

They’ve had one actual date. It’s not exactly happy ever after guaranteed. Ian’s always been the type to keep his eyes on the prize, making plans and going after what he wants. His diagnosis made everything uncertain, the months after he started taking medication a struggle of keeping his head above water, colored by the feeling of his whole future going down the drain. He could never be sure about the next day, about how his brain decides to function.

After pulling himself back on his feet, the first real, solid thing had been college. Getting an education and being a teacher. It’s something Ian knows he wants, something he’s learned to _trust_ himself to want.

And now there’s Mickey. This thing, right here, Ian wants as a part of his future like he wants nothing else. He wants Mickey so much that the fear of being messed up, the _what if this doesn’t work_ is nothing but background noise half the time.

It still makes Ian pause. It’s still fucking terrifying, because nothing is ever guaranteed with him. But maybe he’ll take the terrifying if it means-

“Hey”, Mickey says and pinches Ian’s nipple, _not_ in a sexy way. “Where’d you go?”

Ian jolts slightly, hand coming up to rub at his chest. “Thinking too hard.”

“Sure you’re not just getting sleepy? Ain’t it past your bedtime already, fucking early bird?”

Ian reaches down to fish his phone out of the pile of clothes on the floor. It’s nearly eleven.

He turns back to Mickey. “I’d like to see you get up for class before seven.”

“I’d like to see _you_ do a night shift behind the bar.”

Ian chuckles, but it turns into a yawn halfway through. Dammit, he’s really got the sleep schedule of an old man. Or maybe Mickey’s just really good at wearing him out.

“Sorry”, he says, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets. “It’s been a long day. Probably gonna pass out soon.”

“Nah, it’s fine. You, uh-”, Mickey trails off, sounding unsure. When Ian opens his eyes, he’s halfway to sitting up, gaze firmly at the foot of Ian’s bed. “You want me to go?”

The fact that Mickey isn’t just _going_ , isn’t pulling his clothes back on and disappearing only to text Ian in a couple of days, means a thousand different things. No, Ian doesn’t want him to go. Having him stay hasn’t really felt like an option before.

“No. You don’t gotta go.”

Mickey doesn’t answer immediately. He draws his legs up to his chest, body folding in a way that makes him look younger with how his fingers curl nervously around his knees.

“Hey”, Ian reaches over to him, brushes his knuckles against Mickey’s hip. Soothing, even as his own heartbeat is picking up pace. “I don’t want you to go. You can borrow my underwear and everything.”

“’Kay.”

Getting ready for bed together is unfamiliar, bordering on awkward, but not uncomfortable. Ian gives Mickey clean boxers and the emergency toothbrush he keeps in the bathroom cabinet. Then he goes to brush his own teeth, swallows his pills and drinks three glasses of water. He can hear Mickey walking around the apartment, the sound of the kitchen faucet running.

When Ian steps back into the bedroom, he has to stop entirely to appreciate the sight that greets him. Mickey, standing next to the bed in Ian’s green plaid boxers and nothing else, fiddling with his phone, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He looks adorable as fuck, and Ian gets the strongest, most ridiculous urge to wrap his arms around him, scoop him up and take him to bed, just hold on tight until he decides to stay.

Mickey looks like he’s exactly where he should be, in Ian’s apartment, wearing Ian’s clothes, frowning at something he read on the news.

Ian steps forward before Mickey can notice him staring from the doorway like some creep.

“Bathroom’s free.”

Mickey looks up, takes the toothbrush out.

“Thanks”, he says. It’s garbled by the foam that’s filling his mouth, little bit of it spilling from the corner of his lips. Fucking cute.

Ian’s already under the sheets when Mickey comes back. He hesitates only for a second before climbing into bed as well, making sure to avoid the spot that’s still slightly damp with sweat, pulling the extra blanket Ian dug out of the closet over his legs.

“You even tired yet?” Ian asks.

Mickey shrugs. “I’ll just play Candy Crush until I fall asleep.”

“Candy Crush?” Ian laughs. “In the year 2018? You of all people?”

“Shut up”, Mickey grumbles, but he’s smiling a bit. “It’s fucking addicting. And maybe spares my brain cells better than hard drugs.”

“I don’t know, it’s sort of embarrassing. You might be cooler if you were doing meth.”

Mickey rises to the bait easily. He rolls over to Ian almost aggressively, a ridiculous contrast between his gritted teeth and the way he’s obviously trying to hold back a grin.

“Shut”, he says and grabs Ian’s wrists, slumps half on top of him so he’s trapped. “Up.”

Ian only stares up at him, juts his chin in challenge. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

For a moment, Mickey does absolutely nothing, just stares back with his eyes sparkling and mouth frozen in a smile. His fingers are a steady pressure on Ian’s arms. It feels like affection raining down on Ian, halting and huge and borderline painful. It’s one moment in a sea of moments, and next Mickey’s kissing him, pressing their lips together chaste and sweet, mouth tasting like toothpaste. He lets go to thread his fingers through Ian’s hair, and the following kiss lands on Ian’s cheek, right next to his ear.

“Fucker”, Mickey murmurs against the side of his face, voice low like he’s embarrassed about switching the initial tough guy act to sweet kisses.

Ian isn’t too displeased. It makes him think of “Mick” in his phone’s contact list and the desire to know this dark-haired, beautiful boy better than anyone else in the world. The sides of Mickey that could be for him to uncover, and no one else. He turns his head to nose the side of Mickey’s face. He smells good, too.

“You like it.”

Mickey rolls off of him, settling on his back. The smile stays in place. “Wouldn’t keep coming around if I hated it, Gallagher.”

Just like that, Ian’s heart is trying to escape through his ribcage and burst out of his chest. Technically, Ian knew something along those lines already, but Mickey _wants_ to be here, _wants_ to fall asleep with Ian despite having a different schedule, playing Candy Crush when he could be doing something important with his time. Mickey isn’t leaving even though it would be convenient.

It’s a small thing, but it’s _every fucking thing_.

Ian swallows. It’s been nothing but the sound of breathing for a while.

“Night, Mick”, he says and flicks the bedside lamp off.

“Night, Ian.”

Mickey’s still fast asleep when Ian stirs.

It's a sight to wake up to for sure, and there's a slow smile spreading across Ian's face as soon as he pries his eyes open. He could get used to this. Mickey looks good in the pale light filtering through the blinds, curled up on his side, face soft and slack.

It's still early, and Ian sits up slowly, careful not to wake him. He probably fell asleep later than Ian, and Ian intends to let him rest, even though the temptation to nudge him awake with soft kisses, press up against his sleep-warm body is great. Or alternatively, get between his legs and _bite_ him awake, teeth on his thighs, then maybe suck him off slow and dirty. Ian's not picky.

But no. Mickey can sleep. He'll probably break out of his slumber as soon as Ian puts coffee on, the little caffeine addict.

Ian rolls out of bed, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders to get his body awake and alert. Staying in bed too long tends to make him restless. He doesn’t mind getting up early; he can always laze around on the couch and watch YouTube videos mindlessly later if he feels like it. It was a good night, and he feels it in his whole body, bones and muscles; normally, he would get moving, throw on his running shoes and spend a good hour with his feet pounding the streets of Chicago. Not today. He wants to be here when Mickey wakes up, have breakfast together like he’s wanted to since that first night when they got together.

So Ian starts his morning slow instead. He takes a piss, brushes his teeth, washes his face and armpits. Puts on some of that fancy moisturizer he got from Debbie on his birthday, then goes to the kitchen to get the coffee ready and wait until the taste of toothpaste leaves his mouth and he can take his pills with orange juice.

It turns out that Mickey is a lighter sleeper that he’d anticipated. He pads into the kitchen not even two minutes behind Ian, in boxers and a t-shirt, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Mornin’”, he croaks.

“Couldn’t sleep without me, huh?”

Mickey rolls his eyes the best he can while he’s still squinting sleepily. “God, I need fucking coffee.”

Somehow, Ian had predicted “cranky” would be Mickey’s default setting in the morning.

“Then you’re in luck”, he says and flicks the coffeemaker on.

As Mickey comes closer, his eyes drift to the small pile of pills still on the kitchen counter. Right. Shit. That hasn’t been a conversation yet. Not that Ian’s been hiding it, but it’s just not the first thing he usually springs on the dudes he dates.

Mickey frowns. “You sick or something?”

Ian swallows. It’s too sudden. He can’t believe he hasn’t spared it more thought than this, and now he’s on the spot, Mickey waiting for an explanation, looking fully awake and _concerned_. This is never the fun part.

“Uh. Yeah. Not- Not like _dying_ -sick”, Ian fumbles. “And it’s not contagious. I wouldn’t- I don’t-”

“Whoa, hey”, Mickey’s hand is suddenly on his arm. “Chill out. You don’t gotta tell me anything. Long as you’re not dying. That, uh. That’d be kind of a shitty surprise.”

Ian blows out a choppy breath, mixed with a laugh. Fuck. Calm down. He can do this part with Mickey. When he does it, it’s done, and he has no way to control how Mickey reacts. He doesn’t truly think he would flip out, call Ian a psycho or anything, but. He’ll get it, or he won’t.

He thinks about waking up next to Mickey, falling asleep with him, eating breakfast like this together as Ian takes his meds in the kitchen, and Mickey’s there the whole time. Ian’s brain is always going to be wired like this. If he wants to share all that other stuff with Mickey, he has to share this one as well.

“I’m bipolar”, he says. He doesn’t say it out loud often, even though it’s been there, somewhere in the back of his mind for years now.

“That’s… that’s a brain thing, right?” Mickey asks, frown deepening. “Sorry, I don’t know a lot about this stuff.”

“Yeah. It’s a brain thing”, Ian confirms. Mickey seems mostly confused, which eases his nerves a bit. “It’s mood swings, high and low. Sometimes I feel like I’m on top of the world, doing any impulsive shit I can come up with, next I’m too depressed to get out of bed. Or that’s how it would be if I was unmedicated.”

Ian is never going to love talking about this. He doesn’t hate this part of himself, hasn’t for a while, but he’s never going to _like_ it, either. Even if it’s just Mickey hearing it now – someone Ian trusts, he’s realized – it’s not fun. He still has to fight the feeling like there’s something he needs to apologize for, some critical deficiency he has to make up for.

“So when you take your meds, you don’t have mood swings?”

“I can still get them. But not as often, and they’re shorter and not as severe, usually. If it gets worse than usual, I might need to adjust the doses. I talk to a therapist, so that helps, too.”

Mickey doesn’t look pitying or scared, only vaguely concerned, which isn’t Ian’s _favorite_ reaction, either, but he’ll take it.

“Huh, okay”, Mickey says. “How long have you had it?”

Ian leans against the counter. “Think I started getting symptoms when I was sixteen, so. Fuck. That’s six years.”

It’s not much compared to the years of pill bottles and careful schedules he has ahead of him, but it feels like lightyears, when he really thinks about it. The contrast between the present, and the time when Ian was _definitely not fucking okay_ seems continuously more and more pronounced, though. It’s been a much-needed reminder that he’s been getting better, _really better_ , and that’s still the direction.

“That’s a long fucking time”, Mickey agrees. Guess it feels that way when you’re still in your early twenties.

“Went off the rails for real at first”, Ian confesses quietly. “Spent like a year just running around and doing stupid, dangerous shit, before someone realized something was wrong with me. Then getting used to the meds, finding the right dosage. Another shitshow.”

“Is that why you quit high school?”

“Yeah. And why I never joined the army. Though that’s probably a good thing, even though it fucking sucked back then.”

“That’s definitely a good thing.”

Mickey doesn’t mean it like he’s glad that Ian’s dreams were crushed. Ian remembers him saying that shit about it taking more balls to be a teacher than getting killed in a desert somewhere.

“Anyway”, Ian says. He can’t keep still anymore. Instead, he turns to take two mugs out of the cupboard, starts pouring them both coffee with slightly stiff hands. “That’s all pretty heavy shit. I’m just saying, you know. It’s not going away. And it can get bad again. It’s a lot to handle.”

He hands Mickey one of the mugs, hopes he doesn’t look like his stomach is churning. Mickey’s expression has shifted from concerned to decisive.

“Okay”, he says, takes the offered mug. “So, you should probably tell me beforehand what you need me to do if you get depressed again or something. Like if you’re just gonna want me to fuck off or make you soup or whatever.”

Ian is stunned to silence. He kind of wants to ask Mickey is he somehow misunderstood, because he seems to be taking all of it in stride.

“What?”

“If we’re gonna be-”, Mickey makes a vague gesture with his hand, waves it through the air between them. _Going on more dates_ , Ian realizes it means. “I should know, right? If it can happen anytime?”

“Wait”, he says, a note of annoyance in his voice. He can’t help it. He’s just revealed the absolute most difficult thing about him, and Mickey’s acting like it’s hardly a minor inconvenience. “How do you not think that’s a big deal? I’m telling you I could one day, theoretically, steal a car and try to escape to Mexico because my meds fail.”

Mickey regards him, frowning again. “I mean- I mean, yeah. Mental health shit is a big deal. Fucking sucks that people have to deal with that, like life’s not shitty enough already. But like you said, it ain’t going away, so just gotta be prepared. Roll with the punches, if we can’t.”

 _We_.

Ian doesn’t know what to say. The nerves are gone, replaced with a strange sensation that reaches all the way from his stomach to his throat. He thinks about last night, about Mickey not leaving when it was convenient. He thinks about someone telling him this right from the start instead of giving him sad eyes. Instead of drawing comparisons to Monica when he already thought he was broken, forever an inconvenience to his own family.

He can’t really blame his siblings for not having Mickey’s matter-of-fact approach, but he wonders what it’d have been like if someone back then did.

This morning, Ian takes his pills standing up, with orange juice like he likes it, leaning on his kitchen counter with Mickey’s elbow brushing against his as he sips his coffee.

* * *

The shift from fucking and flirting and hanging out to _this_ (dating, that’s the word for it, it’s dating, but Mickey’s brain tends to flat out refuse to label it in the fear of jinxing it, like maybe as long as it’s not officially something, he can’t officially fuck it up) isn’t actually all that huge.

They’re not meeting each other’s parents or getting a joint bank account or sharing emotional secrets every night. Mostly, they do all the same shit they did before, now they’re just shooting shit over dinner sometimes instead of inside Mickey’s bedroom in between rounds of fucking. They stay over some nights. And maybe there’s a bit less personal space and more casual touching, shoulders being pressed together and unexpected kisses on cheeks. It makes Mickey tense up sometimes, feels strange and foreign, but it’s a gut reaction. Underneath it, it feels really fucking good, really fucking _right_.

So the practical change isn’t big, but the knowledge of what _has_ changed is jarring, pulling Mickey in opposite directions. He’s struggling between the instinct of wanting to maintain control and the way Ian makes him want to lose himself, let go and trust Ian to catch him. It feels like being on a rollercoaster, gripping the safety bar with clammy hands but at the same time wanting to close your eyes, put your hands in the air and enjoy the ride (not that Mickey’s ever been on a rollercoaster, but it’s what he imagines it to be like).

He becomes even more intertwined with Ian’s life, a natural continuation, just like Ian’s becoming more intertwined with his, has been doing for a while now. Mickey knows when Ian’s at work, what time he gets off. Ian knows his shifts as well and continues to bother him by texting during them. It makes the slow nights at the bar infinitely better, and Mickey’s certain his coworkers know exactly what’s going on when he keeps checking his phone and smiling like an idiot.

They watch shitty daytime TV together when Ian isn’t working, and it makes it feel like it’s not just something to fill the empty time between sleeping, working and eating. Ian’s dry commentary makes Mickey laugh, beer and soda cans pile up on the coffee table, and eventually they get bored and swap watching whatever show is on for lazy kisses on the couch.

They sleep together, as in _sleep next to each other_ , and miraculously, Mickey’s brain lets him doze even when Ian is awake in the same room. It should be more worrying, since he’s always been a light sleeper, but he can’t complain when he’s waking up to Ian climbing back into bed, shower-fresh, smelling like the girly vanilla bodywash he uses.

They take a fucking walk in the park, which is something old people do (well, Mickey’s done it, if he counts the time he was waiting at a park with enough cocaine to last dozens of South Side house parties. His dad had put him on the job; Mickey had been twelve and so nervous he’d probably looked like he was _on_ drugs rather than selling them).

It’s pretty different with Ian. They just walk through it and look at all the bushes and flowers and shit. It’s… actually not that horrible. Ian buys a cup of frozen yoghurt, which Mickey flat out refuses to try and gets himself a coffee instead. They eat and drink and talk, and Mickey forgets to keep an eye on his surroundings like he’s done since he was a kid.

It’s disorienting.

Suddenly, everything is Ian, and Mickey’s afraid he’s getting greedy, too used to things he’s not sure he’s allowed to have. But he’s trying, alright? Mickey’s trying to live in the _here and now_ instead of in the potential shit that might happen, carefully letting himself hope that the other shoe’s not about to drop.

“I’m going back home this weekend”, Ian says on a Friday after they’ve eaten dinner.

He’s standing at the sink, nearly elbows-deep in dishwater, washing plates Mickey insisted he didn’t have to wash. It bothers Mickey, just a bit, how weirdly domestic it is; Ian doing the dishes at his apartment, insisting on making fucking salad to go along with the pizza bagels despite Mickey’s protests (okay, not like a fancy salad, just lettuce and tomato, but still. Mickey’s pretty sure the only green thing they regularly had at their house when he was a kid was weed, so he’s still learning to pick up that healthy shit when he goes to the supermarket).

“To see my family”, Ian specifies unnecessarily, picking up another plate. “It’s Liam’s birthday. So a nice, mostly alcohol-free party for once.”

“Okay”, Mickey says. Too uncomfortable with his own idleness, he grabs a towel and starts drying off the clean dishes. It feels just as weird, but at least it gives him something to do. “That’s cool. Have fun, man.”

He probably sounds like an insincere asshole, even though he doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t know the right tone, the _normal_ tone when it comes to talking about family. To Mickey, family’s mostly been a bunch of people that he shacked up with and that had his back when he had to fuck up other people. For Ian, family is something entirely different, and this is the one area where their experiences don’t mirror each other. Mickey doesn’t feel sorry for himself about the lack of birthday parties in his life, fuck no, but he can’t imagine at all the connection Ian has to his siblings, and with them, to the neighborhood.

Ian empties the sink and dries off his hands. “You ever go back? To visit?”

Mickey snorts, unable to stop himself. “Fuck no. No one there I give a shit about seeing.”

“Really? No one? Your family was as big as mine.”

Mickey shakes his head, places the last plate back into the cabinet. “Nah. We weren’t that tight.”

He wouldn’t mind seeing Mandy again, but she’s gone. And she sure as fuck won’t go back, probably not even to Chicago, let alone South Side. Mickey got along okay with his brothers, but he doesn’t miss them, and he’s certain the feeling is mutual. Could be that after years of doing drugs and taking hits in the head they don’t remember he even exists.

“Why’d you leave in the first place?”

It’s a relatively simple question with a relatively simple answer.

“Had enough”, Mickey shrugs. “Didn’t wanna end up the way I was gonna end up. A fucking criminal forever. Or shanked in prison.”

“Had a moment of epiphany?”

“Something like that.”

It’s true enough, even though it’s not the reason that made him run and never look back. Mickey wouldn’t have survived if he had stayed. His childhood home was a prison and that neighborhood a death sentence, one way or another, and he doesn’t know how to explain it to Ian. He doesn’t want to. Shitty memories from the South Side don’t make Mickey special in any way, he knows Ian has plenty of those as well, but the period of time that led to him finally taking off isn’t something he’s eager to revisit.

Ian nods, thoughtful. “I get it. Your family seemed pretty rough. Think we all steered clear of your dad. I mean, Frank wasn’t an ideal parent either, but…”

But he was nowhere near Terry. Yeah. Mickey swallows down the feeling slithering up his throat.

“Yeah.”

Ian steps carefully closer, hand coming to rest on Mickey’s hip. His brow is furrowed in something resembling concern. “I’m glad you got out.”

He sounds genuine, like he really is glad, like he’s somehow proud of Mickey for stopping beating the shit out of people for no reason, for not being as big of a piece of shit as his father. Like he truly believes Mickey deserved a life outside the fear and hurt that was handed to him since he was born. Even though Ian still doesn’t know him, not in every way, can’t possibly understand.

It still feels good.

Mickey doesn’t say _me too_ , doesn’t wrap his arms around Ian to stand there in the middle of the kitchen embracing him like a dumbass. He leans back against the counter, pulling Ian with him to get his mouth on his neck. Ian hums, the sound vibrating against Mickey’s lips when he lays a trail of sloppy kisses from Ian’s throat to the sharp angle of his jaw, to his mouth. He wants to claim Ian, but in a weird, unfamiliarly tender way. Show him how damn good he makes Mickey feel, wants to hold all that kindness and sweetness in the palm of his hand.

When their mouths slot together again, Ian’s hand shifts to cup Mickey’s face instead, warm and big and smelling like dish soap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated whether or not Mickey's "we're in this together" -attitude when it came to Ian's diagnosis was unrealistic this early in their relationship. But he takes things as they come and rolls with the punches, so I just imagine it'd be a thing among others for him. It could be anything else, a physical illness or a bad allergy, he'd just want to know what to do in advance.
> 
> [tumblr](https://farfromohio.tumblr.com/) here!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry :^)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: violence, homophobia, PTSD-like symptoms, talk of shitty past relationships.

It’s relatively smooth sailing for nearly a month. Three weeks and four days after their first official date, to be exact, not that Mickey’s counting. He almost stops expecting for the shit to hit the fan.

They’re supposed to hang out tonight, watch movies together and eat popcorn until they get sick. It sounds like two teenage girls at a sleepover, but Mickey’s really fucking excited. It’s the kind of normal shit he’s never had the chance to do before, and who would he even have done it with?

Ian’s getting off work soon, at six fifteen, after which they’re walking together. Mickey’s a little early, and he feels like an ass waiting out on the street, so he goes inside. Surprisingly, he doesn’t spend a whole lot of time in bookstores, and he’s a little uneasy, scanning the near-empty shop for a head of red hair. There’s a grandma flipping through a cookbook, and a young couple scanning the horror novels, but no Ian.

Mickey walks a little further into the store, hands shoved into his pockets, peering over the shelves. He hopes no one asks if he wants to buy something.

He finds Ian in the children’s section, crouching down, which explains why Mickey couldn’t see his six-foot ass from miles away. He’s on one knee, back to Mickey, talking to a little girl that can’t be more than six or seven, gesturing at the colorful books displayed on the shelf, every once in a while stopping at one and seemingly telling her more about it.

Mickey doesn’t announce himself. He walks closer quietly, slowly, until he’s able to hear what Ian is explaining.

“Space? That’s what you’re thinking?”

The little girl nods enthusiastically, braids swinging wildly with the movement. “I wanna be an astronaut. Or a singer. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well”, Ian says thoughtfully. “You’ve got time to do plenty of stuff. How about we start with space?”

The girl nods again, eyes firmly on Ian like he’s the most interesting person she’s ever met. Mickey can’t blame her.

Ian scans the books on the shelf before picking up one with bright planets and twinkling stars on the cover. The girl immediately extends her little hands to grab the book, and Ian props it up so they’re both holding it. The kid is enamored, eyes flitting over the first page, the text and the few pictures.

“What do you say?” Ian asks.

“Yeah”, the girl says, already turning the page and starting to bombard Ian with more space-related questions.

Ian listens attentively, gives serious answers, and asks the kid for her own opinion. He doesn’t sound fake or condescending, but like he’s genuinely interested in what the yet-to-be astronaut thinks about space rocks and black holes. It’s fucking sweet as fuck, and Mickey stares, half-hidden behind a shelf of autobiographies.

Mickey never had a teacher he liked, he thought they were all a bunch of fucking assholes, but he can honestly see Ian being a fucking great one. He cares about people feeling heard and understood, about giving chances and all that. And especially after what Ian told him about being bipolar, Mickey can’t help thinking that part of it might be because Ian didn’t get to feel like that, maybe in a different way than most kids on the South Side, but still.

Seeing him with this kid now, endlessly kind and patient, giving his all like he always does. Fuck. You can’t fake that shit, you have to have it in your heart to begin with. And Ian does, has so much of it, and Mickey can’t believe he’s got a guy like this kissing him good morning and shoving him off the sidewalk like a jackass when they’re walking together.

“Tia, honey, it’s time to go.” A woman appears at the end of the shelf.

“Can we get this one, mommy?” the kid asks, swinging the space book in the air, putting on her best puppy dog eyes.

The woman takes it, examines the cover, then smiles softly at her daughter. “Of course. Another space adventure tonight, huh?”

When they’re leaving, the book in tow, the girl gives Ian a wave with the hand that isn’t holding her mother’s. Ian’s face lights up, and he waves back. What an absolute dork. Mickey bites his lip to keep his face from doing something stupid.

Ian straightens up and turns around, immediately spotting him. His eyes widen in surprise.

“You’re early.”

Mickey shrugs. “Thought I’d come inside to wait. See the future professor Gallagher in action.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to be teaching at college, dumbass.”

“Sounded cooler, dumbass.”

“You’d know cool”, Ian comes closer, bumps Mickey with his shoulder. “Let me get my shit and we can go.”

Mickey stands and waits while Ian disappears to the back of the store, then reappears in under a minute. He waves goodbye to the blonde middle-aged lady behind the counter. Her eyes flick from Ian to Mickey, how their arms keep bumping together when they're leaving. Mickey doesn’t care about people knowing he's gay, most of his coworkers probably do, despite the fact that he's never directly brought it up. But he's never been looked at in public with another dude like this. It's always been him and some other, faceless, nameless guy stumbling home from the bar, barely touching each other on the sidewalk on or the L.

This is different, being with Ian like this is different. He's spent a large chunk of his life both dreading it and secretly hoping for it, and yeah, he’s nearly twenty-four now and not afraid like that anymore, but he still sort of expected that people looking would make his skin crawl.

It doesn’t. Mickey doesn’t mind it at all.

They’re arguing about action flicks and whether or not buttered popcorn is better than plain (it is, obviously) when they’re walking down the street, both in a good mood, almost ridiculously so.

“Look at it this way”, Mickey says. “I don’t think you should get a say in the movie we’re watching, since your ass is gonna fall asleep halfway through it anyway.”

“You’re not giving me enough credit”, Ian argues playfully. “My plan was actually to _distract_ you from the movie halfway through and then bend you over the couch and fuck you nice and hard.”

Mickey’s about to retort, tease him right back even though he’s _already_ entirely distracted by Ian. He doesn’t get the chance to, because someone slams into his shoulder with too much force for it to be an accident.

“Watch where you’re fucking going, faggots.”

Mickey whips around immediately, every muscle in his body pulled tight, ready to kick someone’s ass. “The fuck did you just say?”

The man that bumped into them has stopped and turned around upon realizing his bullshit got a reaction. He’s older than them, big and burly, but he’s also clearly drunk and unsteady on his feet. He couldn’t take even one of them in a fight like this, but Mickey’s fully prepared for him to try.

Ian is already stepping half in front of him, shoulders squared and back straight like he isn’t fucking around. It’s a full one-eighty from the sweet young college student from the bookstore.

“Walk the fuck away”, Ian says, not aggressive, but steady and warning.

“Huh?” the guy sneers, steps closer with the aid of liquid courage. He’s clearly not about to let a couple of homos stand up to him.

It exposes one missing front tooth, the rest dirty and brown. He’s got graying hair, ugly, angry wrinkles etched into his forehead, on the sides of his mouth. He’s not a real danger, but Mickey’s stomach churns. He hasn’t been in an actual fight in a long time, he could take guy out with one, well-aimed punch, but-

“You gonna tell me what to do? Fucking filthy, little-”

With surprising swiftness, he drives forward, shoves at Ian hard with his entire body. Ian must be surprised too, because he stumbles and loses his balance completely, making a pained little noise when his ass hits the ground. It’s only for a second, and the damage done is probably nothing more than a bruise on his asscheek and a couple of scrapes on his palms, but for a second he also looks confused and vulnerable and small and now the man is stepping in front of him, looming over Ian as a shadow, like he’s about to do more, like he’s about to break bones and punish and Mickey can’t do anything but _watch_ -

The next thing Mickey knows is that he has the man by the lapels of his jacket, face only inches from his, blood pounding in his ears so loud he can barely hear anything else. He’s breathing hard, he can feel it in how his lungs burn even though he hasn’t thrown any punches, hasn’t exerted himself yet. The man looks a little shaken, but Mickey isn’t sure who or what he’s looking at anymore, the wrinkles and the teeth and the distressed eyes distorting into half-someone-else.

Ian is saying something behind him, telling him to calm down, _take a breath, Mickey, you don’t have to do that, I’m okay_. Mickey’s fists clench harder, bunch the fabric inside, his body is pulled tight, tight, tight like a string. The heartbeat in his ears isn’t easing.

Then the half-someone trapped with his fists moves. He recovers from his shock and surprise, the sudden stillness making him gain some of that confidence back and raise his own hand to Mickey’s face before he can react. It doesn’t take much, an angry snarl and a muttered threat, the press of a large palm and meaty fingers against the exposed skin of Mickey’s throat _like he’s about to choke him_ before the man is on the ground, Mickey on top of him, raining punches everywhere he can reach.

Mickey can barely see, some awful mixture of fury and terror is blinding him, coming up his throat like bile, only driving his fists forward to protect, to defend. This won’t happen again, Ian isn’t going to be hurt again, _Mickey_ isn’t going to be hurt again, left beaten and bloody by-

The man lets out a long, pathetic whine, and Mickey comes to a stuttering halt. He’s still breathing hard, crouched over the figure on the ground. The man wheezes, coughs, spits a mouthful of blood on the sidewalk. Wait. wait. No.

Someone touches his shoulder, and Mickey’s pulse spikes again. He twists around and nearly cracks them across the face too, but his eyes land on Ian, face twisted into something Mickey can’t recognize on it.

_Wait._

Ian’s fingers are touching his shoulder, but he’s keeping his distance otherwise, and he’s looking at Mickey with big, concerned eyes. He’s looking at Mickey all weird like he doesn’t know what he’s seeing.

“Hey”, Ian says, voice careful and thin like he’s talking to a wild animal. “Easy. You’re okay. I’m okay. We’re okay.”

The guy is quietly moaning in pain behind them. Mickey blinks, turns to look. He’s still on the ground, crumpled and bloody, hands gingerly touching his own face. The sight slams Mickey fully back into his own body.

He doesn’t know this man. This is some regular, homophobic drunk wandering the streets and shouting slurs at people, and for a moment, Mickey was ready to beat him to death over it. There was no fucking reason to go all in like that. What the fuck. What the fuck is wrong with him.

When the man sees Mickey looking, he pauses, breath hitching with panic, scrambles up from the ground shakily. Cautious eyes on them both, like he’s afraid Mickey might finish the job, he backs away until it turns into a hurried limp to get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.

Mickey turns back to Ian. His body is starting to come down from the adrenaline high which leaves it shaking, limbs like Jell-O. Ian hasn’t taken his eyes off him. Fuck. Shit. Mickey’s knuckles are starting to sting. He knows from experience they’ll be bruised and achy as fuck tomorrow. It’s another, unwelcome echo from years back.

He jerks back. Ian flinches. It makes him feel a billion times shittier, his heart dropping into his stomach.

“Mick”, Ian says, barely a whisper. “We should go.”

They should, or at least Mickey should, before someone calls the cops or something. He can’t drag Ian into this, he has to get the fuck out of here.

It’s exactly what he does, and Ian is right behind him because of course he is, keeping up easily with his long fucking limbs as if he didn’t just watch Mickey beat the shit out of someone. Exactly like the type of person he wasn’t supposed to be anymore, not since his father, not since he left home. The thought makes him sick and panicky, like he can’t trust himself, and he _definitely_ can’t trust himself to do _this_.

Maybe he should’ve known. Maybe he should’ve never-

“Hey, hey”, Ian’s hand touching his shoulder. “Talk to me. Please, Mickey, slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Mickey keeps walking, attempting to shrug Ian off. It’s too much, the fear and the concern and the questions when even _he_ isn’t entirely sure what the fuck just happened.

“Leave me alone”, he croaks, throat tight. “Let me- I gotta go home.”

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, you shouldn’t-”

Ian touches him again, and Mickey shakes him off with more force. He can’t do this now. “No, no. Fucking said no.”

“Mick.” Now Ian sounds hurt and it’s _worse_ , the exact thing Mickey’s been afraid of causing. “Please. Let me help.”

Mickey shakes his head. How did let himself think he could just- Without any fucking consequences. Things always go to shit. For him, for people like him.

“I fucking mean it. Leave me alone.”

“Fine, okay, but- “, Ian says, defeated, desperate. “At least text me, tell me you’re okay, alright?”

Mickey doesn’t answer, and when Ian slows down, falls behind completely, he doesn’t look back.

* * *

“So let me get this straight. Your boyfriend just beats up some guy in the middle of the street, then tells you to fuck off and flees the crime scene? And you’re worried about him?”

“Okay”, Ian says. Leave it to Lip to exaggerate everything he hears. “’Crime scene’, really? And it’s not about him punching someone, the guy definitely deserved a fist in the face. It’s more like… He got really freaked out over it, and then he took off, and I don’t know why.”

It’s been five days of radio silence, no texts, no calls, nothing from Mickey, and Ian is ready to lose it with how worried he is. Mickey needs to be alone for a bit, that’s fine, but the least he could do is to let Ian know that he’s home and safe. Ian’s tried reaching him, left him increasingly concerned messages, at the same time attempting not to pressure him.

(11:21 PM) Ian

_You need some space, I get it. Just let me know you’re okay_.

(7:15 PM) Ian

_You know I’m not angry with you, right?_

(4:37 PM) Ian

_Please don’t shut me out right now, I’m starting to freak out. Mick, call me._

Mickey’s opened all of them, but not one response. Ian’s anxiety is fucking skyrocketing, and the concern for Mickey is already mixing with dread-filled thoughts of this being it. Maybe this, Mickey keeping his distance and ignoring Ian’s attempts at communication, means the end of their relationship that Ian had allowed himself to be semi-hopeful about.

No, fuck. he can’t think like that. He has to give Mickey some credit. This is something deeply personal and big, and Ian has to trust Mickey to come to him when he’s ready. He has to trust him not to just suddenly drop Ian. It can’t be like that, because Ian’s absolutely certain that they’ve built a certain level of trust between them now, and all of that can’t be just erased without a conversation or an explanation.

So Ian had done the only thing he could think of to ease his worry. He’d gone to Lip to get some of those thoughts out, and while his brother can be an infuriating bastard every now and then, he’s ready to drop everything when Ian needs the company.

“I don’t know, man”, Lip says. “Kinda sounds to me like you dodged a bullet there.”

Ian huffs, annoyed. “Come on, I’ve seen _you_ beat on people before. I’ve done that. And like I said, the guy had it coming. He was being a homophobic prick, and he was the one who got physical with me first, then with Mickey when he stepped in. It was self-defense.”

Well, maybe the first punch was self-defense. The ones that followed, the fear and anger in Mickey’s eyes afterwards is exactly what’s got Ian so worried, but he’s not about to explain that to Lip.

“Mickey?” Lip quirks a brow. It makes Ian realize he hasn’t actually given Lip a name at any point, just told him there’s this dude he may have been somewhat obsessed with most of the summer. “Your guy’s name is Mickey?”

“Yeah. He’s from the South Side too, actually. What are the odds?”

“Really?” Lip pauses to fully look at him from where he’s stirring a pot on the stove. “I remember one Mickey from the old neighborhood. Can’t be the same one, though.”

“He probably is the same one. Milkovich, lived like a couple of streets away. I don’t really remember him from when we were kids, but yeah.”

Lip drops the spoon with a clang. “Wait, wait. Are you kidding?”

“No”, Ian says, a small smile pulling on his lips despite everything. It _is_ kind of amazing, him getting with someone he grew up so close to. It feels like a nearly missed chance. “He’s a bartender now, I met him at that bar you dragged me to so you could force me to date. So really, I should be thanking you.”

“What, that shithole sports bar?”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to call it a shithole anymore.”

Lip shakes his head in disbelief. “Hold on. You met him that _same night_?”

“Sure as fuck wouldn’t have gone back otherwise”, Ian leans fully back against the couch. “Don’t think you did either, ‘cause you had no idea he was working there.”

“Fuck, no. One time was bad enough.”

He doesn’t say anything else, seemingly stunned into silence. That’s a first, and Ian is almost distracted from the worry weighing in his stomach.

“Look, it’s weird, I get it. I know his family was sort of a nightmare back then, so it must sound like-”

“Ian, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Ian’s words stutter to silence. “What?”

“This”, Lips gestures vaguely. The confusion on his face is starting to take on shades of concern and familiar self-righteousness. “Not at all. A fucking Milkovich. There’s no way that’s gonna end well.”

Ian gapes. “You don’t know him. How can you- His name doesn’t mean shit. What makes you think you knows what you’re talking about?”

“Ian”, Lip says again, with a little laugh of disbelief. “Do you? You’re telling me about him beating the shit out of a guy and defending him in the same breath. Is that- You really think that means he’s an upstanding citizen now? That’s exactly the kind of shit he did all the time back then. It sure as fuck wasn’t just his _family_.”

Ian knew this, in theory. He knew that Mickey was one of his dad’s henchmen, just as ready to break faces as the rest of them. But he’s- He _wanted_ out, wanted to work an honest job and get rid of the weight of the neighborhood. It has never once crossed Ian’s mind to hold the shit that Mickey did or didn’t do as a teenager against him.

Fuck Lip for trying to make him. For trying to have Ian feeling stupid about it. He doesn’t know _shit_.

“You haven’t seen him in years”, Ian says. He feels defensive, even though he knows he’s right. “You have no idea. He’s not like that.”

Lip’s expression softens a bit. “And you don’t remember him. Gay or not, a couple of years back he would’ve beaten you bloody just for trying to get with him. Look, Ian, I know you’re blinded by love or something-”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“-and you don’t see the bad shit because you don’t want to. This thing right here? It’s a sign. He’s not fucking it.” He pauses, rakes a hand through his curls. For a moment, he looks genuinely sorry. “You’ve been hurt enough. Don’t do this to yourself again.”

Ian swallows. The words hit a nerve, and he’s sure it’s exactly what they were meant to do. Tough love, or whatever. “That’s not fair. This is different, you know it is.”

Lip shakes his head again, crosses his arms. His mouth is a thin, determined line, so familiar from a lifetime of shared memories. It means Lip the Big Brother, Lip that knows better and isn’t afraid to spit advice to your face to get you to follow it. Ian’s seen it directed at Fiona when her life was slipping out of control, at Carl or Debbie a couple of times. It’s always the least fun when you’re on the receiving end of it.

“Yeah, maybe it is”, Lip says. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m still looking out for you. I always will be. This is me telling you that you deserve better than someone who does this and then leaves you hanging for days. Ian, he’s not fucking worth it.”

Ian shakes his head, even as every anxious thought he had about this gets a hundred times louder. “You don’t get to decide that. You’re not the one who’s been with him the whole summer.”

Lip throws his hands up, stalks closer to the couch. It’s one step away from pointing an accusing finger. “Jesus Christ, Ian. This is the exact fucking talk we had last time. Remember last time? I told you that guy was a douchebag and a liar and a cheater, and you were convinced I just didn’t understand. And I was _right_. Now it’s happening again, and you’re refusing to look at the red flags because you think maybe this time the fucking punk that disappears on you whenever he wants _isn’t_ going to smash your heart into pieces.”

Ian springs up from the couch before he even makes the decision. “Fuck you. You don’t get to throw that in my face.”

He knows all that. He knows he doesn’t have the greatest track record when it comes to dating, but it hurts to hear it like that. Especially as now, looking back, he can see exactly how stupid some of his decisions have been, stemming from the crushing feeling of loneliness and the need to manage his own low self-worth by hanging onto someone else. It feels shameful now, and that particular one Lip is talking about took him months to recover from. He knows that.

Lip also knows how much shit Ian was going through back then, and the last thing he wants is for it to be pointed at him like a weapon.

He barely restrains himself from throttling his brother like he would’ve done when they were younger. Instead, they stand in Lip’s living room, shoulders squared, both vibrating with anger.

“It’s not the same fucking thing, and you know it”, Ian says, forcing his voice to stay even. It’s tight with the urge to yell. “I’m doing better. And I’m not stupid, either.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not being intentionally blind about this shit”, Lip retorts. “Come on. The radio silence, the keeping shit from you, the lying…”

“He’ll talk to me when he’s ready. He’s not lying to me.”

Lip scoffs. “Oh, yeah. Mickey Milkovich shares everything with you. I bet he’s a great communicator.”

Ian’s temper flares up on Mickey’s behalf, but also because Lip’s bringing up the exact things he _knows_ are bothering Ian right now. All in the name of what’s best for him, of course.

“You don’t know shit”, Ian says heatedly, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “He trusts me.”

“Does he?” Lip asks with a little laugh. “You, uh. You already knew he was married then, right?”

“What?”

That’s not right. Ian must’ve misheard, because that’s-

“Or you didn’t”, Lip says grimly. “Yeah. I’m not exactly shocked.”

The surprise is enough to make the anger momentarily drain from Ian’s body. “Wait, wait, wait. What the fuck are you talking about, married?”

Lip shrugs, looking a bit uncomfortable now, but not backing down. “Got hitched with some foreign chick back when he was still living in the neighborhood. Guess it was to cover up that he liked banging dudes.”

“What the fuck”, Ian says, feeling lost. He doesn’t know how to process this information. He can’t make it fit in with everything else he knows about Mickey. “Where the fuck was I? How have I never heard anything about this?”

“Uh. Think that was around the time you took off with Monica.”

Right. The first, the last, and the most destructive road trip of Ian’s life, followed by the seemingly never-ending period of mood swings and trying to stick with medication. It’s only bits and pieces in his memory now.

He shakes the thought off. It’s not- He can’t say it’s something Mickey’s been _hiding_ from him, exactly, but… That’s what it feels like. It bothers him immensely, that something like this was obscured behind what was happening in Ian’s own life.

“So what if he was. It’s in the past”, Ian says, more self-assured than he feels. “Doesn’t mean you know more about him than I do.”

“Kinda starting to feel like you don’t know anything about him, either. Kinda starting to feel like he’s pretty much the same shady, violent asshole he was back then.”

It takes every ounce of self-control Ian possesses not to punch his brother in the face. Instead of that, he kicks over a chair on his way out. It doesn’t feel nearly as satisfying.

The distance from Mickey isn’t doing anything to soothe the doubts that are starting to take root in Ian’s head. He can’t stand being in the dark. The argument with Lip left him feeling blindsided and stupid, and he can’t get to sleep the following night. He tosses and turns until his bedsheet is an uncomfortable tangle under him, keeps checking his phone every few minutes.

Nothing from Mickey.

It’s not that Ian has a problem with the idea of someone he dates having been married before. People get married for all kinds of reasons, and in Mickey’s case, he’s willing to bet it wasn’t true love. They’ve never talked about it, but it makes sense that Mickey wasn’t exactly out and proud as long as he lived with his family.

Marriage, though. It warps everything about the months they’ve been spending together. It’s a huge deal, and Ian had no idea. That’s the part that bothers him, gets under his skin, makes him wonder desperately what else he doesn’t know about Mickey.

Fuck. Maybe Lip was right. Maybe Mickey really doesn’t trust him, doesn’t tell him things to keep him at an arm’s length, like he’s doing right now by ignoring his calls and texts. Even after that shit he said about making an effort. Even after sleeping next to Ian, sharing kisses over coffee, coming to meet him at work to walk together.

Even after Ian opened himself up, shared the most vulnerable thing he had to offer.

Ian springs out of bed. He’s done nothing but nodded of every now and then, not even amounting to an hour of sleep, probably. His eyes feel dry and itchy, his head is pounding, mouth parched, and it’s only a little past four in the morning. He checks his phone. Nothing.

By nine o’clock, the crawling, insecure feeling has settled heavy in Ian’s stomach, in every limb, impossible to will away. He keeps going back to yesterday with Lip and feeling like the butt of a joke.

By eleven, he’s at Mickey’s apartment, pounding his fist against the door. It doesn’t take long for Mickey to answer, maybe to spare his neighbors from the noise.

The door swings open, Mickey’s scowling face appears. Upon seeing Ian, his expression dips into something softer, just for a second, before it turns guarded again. And seeing him after being worried sick for days, intact and at least relatively okay, should feel relieving, but it doesn’t. Every unanswered call and message left on read, he’s just _there_ , like nothing has fucking happened, and Ian’s simmering annoyance spikes through the ceiling.

“Nice to fucking know you’re alive, asshole”, is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

Mickey reels back a bit. “The fuck is your problem?”

“My problem?” Ian shoves his way inside the apartment. “What the hell is your problem?”

Mickey shuts the door behind him. “Did you come all the way here to yell at me?”

“If you answered your fucking _phone_ I wouldn’t have had to!”

At that, Mickey actually looks a little guilty. “Been busy.”

He’s dressed in a t-shirt and faded sweatpants, bare-footed and hair sticking up at the back like he’s just gotten out of bed. Normally it’d be cute, but now it just makes Ian angrier, because it looks like while he’s been suffering, Mickey’s been doing absolutely nothing. It’s borderline painful, that being this close, for once, doesn’t ground Ian. Instead it feels like he’s lost his footing.

“Doing what? Hiding here ‘cause you don’t feel like talking to me?”

Mickey bristles, like an animal driven into a corner. “Ain’t hiding.”

“Then what, Mickey? You freak out on me and then cut off all contact like that? What the fuck am I supposed to think?”

“Supposed to take a fucking hint and leave me alone.”

Ian fights the urge to shove some sense into him. “Yeah? I’m so fucking sorry for being worried about you, you prick.”

“Well you can set your mind at ease”, Mickey spreads his arms, but his stance remains defensive. “I’m fine.”

Ian laughs, angry and bitter. He can’t help but feel like his fears aren’t that far-fetched. “How about talking to me like a normal person? Telling that to my face like a fucking adult? That ever cross your mind or is your head too far up your own ass?”

He wants to fix things. He does. But that would require some kind of response from Mickey, some sign, some acknowledgement that he acted, _is acting_ , like an asshole. Ian is done being a fucking doormat. He’s done letting people take, take, take.

Mickey steps forward, in front of Ian, face tight and angry and battle-ready. “Fuck you.”

Ian doesn’t back down. “You know, I get it, you’ve got some issues-”

Mickey’s eyes glint dangerously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me! Instead of sulking alone and leaving me guessing like I’m just some guy you can ignore when it’s convenient.”

It gets to Mickey somewhat. He averts Ian’s gaze, eases back, rubs a thumb across the side of his mouth. Even uncomfortable, he fights tooth and nail to hold on to that defensiveness. It’s frustrating, because Ian isn’t asking for much, just an attempt at healthy communication. They’ve been doing so well.

“It’s nobody else’s business”, Mickey says, voice low.

“are you _kidding_? Isn’t that what the last month’s been about? My business being your business and the other way around?”

Mickey half-shrugs, tight faced, not looking at Ian.

“Fucking really”, Ian says, anger and hurt and _fear_ squeezing around his heart. “You’re just gonna give up, no conversation, nothing?”

Mickey looks like he’s about to argue, but Ian doesn’t give him the chance. He needs to get this out.

“So you’ve got some shit you’re working through, you’re scared? Talk to me, you fucking pussy! You think it’s easy for me to talk about being bipolar? Telling people how fucked up I am?” Ian pauses, tries to breathe through the flood of sudden _everything_. “I still told you, I told you because I trusted you, because I wanted you to know even that fucked up part. I thought it meant you trusted me too. But you fucking disappear on me like I’m not even worth half an explanation.”

“You don’t fucking get it”, Mickey says stubbornly, but his face crumples a bit. “Look. I can’t-”

He looks worn-out, underneath it all. Ian ignores the stab of sympathy.

“No”, he bites out. “But I thought we were making an effort. Together. Right now, you’re not doing shit.”

Mickey shakes his head, small and tired. “Maybe it’s not working. Maybe we should’ve stuck to what we had at first.”

There it is.

Maybe they should’ve stuck to the thing Ian’s good for. Having fun without commitment, ending with him being screwed over and made a fool out of when he asks for more.

It’s the thing he hung onto from the beginning, the reckless certainty that Mickey wasn’t like that. He thought he’d been proved right. That this would be the time he wouldn’t be burned.

He’s barely aware he’s saying words before he hears them coming out of his own mouth.

“One homophobic prick and you’re throwing in the towel? Fucking guys is fine but as long as you don’t talk about your feelings, you’re still a tough man, right? Fucking coward. Maybe you’re gonna start fucking girls again too.”

Mickey’s face goes blank. “What.”

“Yeah, I fucking know”, Ian goes on, fueled by blind anger and hurt. Tears are already pricking his eyes. “Know you were married to a woman. Maybe she’d still be up for it if you wanna crawl all the way back into the closet.”

For a moment, no one even breathes.

“Get out”, Mickey says. He’s pale and wide-eyed, suddenly. When it doesn’t get a reaction, he roars, voice cracking, “Get the _fuck_ out!”

Ian flinches back. Mickey looks mad enough to hit him, practically shaking with rage. It’s safe to say Ian’s hit a nerve, which is what he wanted to do. He doesn’t let the distant guilt settle in. Instead he focuses on his own anger, and the rush of cold satisfaction it gives him. With that, he’s out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly don't mean to portray Lip as an asshole, but he can be a little... harsh, when he thinks people are being stupid and ruining their lives. They'll talk it out. After some silent treatment from Ian.
> 
> [tumblr](https://farfromohio.tumblr.com/) here, I welcome you to send me hate about leaving the chapter here :)


	5. Chapter 5

If he thought he’d felt like crap after their gone-to-shit movie date, it was nothing compared to this.

After Ian goes, Mickey listens to his footsteps moving down the hall, then grabs the first solid object he can find, which is a plate he’s left on the counter, and throws it against a wall with all his might. One of the bigger pieces bounces back and hits Mickey on the forehead, and he gets to clean up and spend the next twenty minutes on the floor making sure he didn’t miss any of the shards.

It doesn’t do much to placate his anger. He has to take a moment to lean over the counter, digging his palms into his eye sockets, hard, to keep himself from doing some other stupid thing he usually does when he can’t deal with his frustration. Like get shit-faced or punch the wall and break a couple of fingers.

It feels like every awful thing that’s been weighing his body down, making him sick, barely letting him close his eyes at night over the last few days is hitting him at once.

Mickey doesn’t know how long he stands there, but eventually the burn of anger turns into the burn of tears behind his eyelids. He rubs it away. Jesus, fuck.

He’s not mad at Ian for saying that. He can’t be. Not really. It’s not like Ian knows the whole story. Who the fuck knows how he found out about it, but Mickey can’t blame him for wanting to use something sharp that’d leave a real wound. And this particular one Mickey’s had to stitch shut on his own over the years.

Mickey’s _fine_ with it, really, as okay as he can be, shitty things happen to everyone and if Mickey wasn’t such a fucking pussy he wouldn’t be trying to murder random people on the street over something that happened _years ago_. But thinking about it too suddenly still makes the bottom of his stomach drop out, feel like his insides are trying to purge themselves, and Ian accusing him of-

He clenches his hands, breathes hard through his nose.

When he’s absolutely fucking certain he’s not going to cry, he moves to sit on the couch, wraps his arms around his knees, and tries not to feel like a little kid, miserable and lost.

It’s a whole goddamn mess.

Ian deserves better than this, he _knows_ it, but this is what Mickey does when things go to shit; he shuts himself away and then lashes out. And of course things had gone to shit, just when he’d started to think they wouldn’t for once in his fucking life. Just like that, every wall had gone back up, the urgent need to defend and _survive_.

How could he do this if he can’t even keep his own shit together? How could he be good for Ian like that? Ian doesn’t get it, doesn’t know how fucked up it is, doesn’t understand why-

_You could help him understand._

Mickey sighs, grinds his forehead against his knees. Yeah. No. Not fucking likely he’d even want to anymore, not after the shit Mickey pulled.

He doesn’t throw any more dishes or punch any walls. Or people, which also would have been a real possibility not too long ago. He doesn’t think he’s even angry anymore, just drained. Like a fucking balloon someone let all the air out of and couldn’t be bothered to throw away. The whole flying off the handle -thing got old years ago (and no, the plate doesn’t count, breaking one plate is still completely reasonable when you need to let out some steam).

Mickey dresses up and goes to work, because he doesn’t really have an option. Wallowing in self-pity has never done anyone any good, and at least now he has something useful (and legal) to distract him from the shitshow of his life.

That’s how he used to think of it back when he was still running drugs for his dad, pointing a gun at people on a weekly basis and never knowing when one of them would point one back with the intent to use it. A shitshow. It hasn’t been like that for years, and the difference feels sort of staggering sometimes. The life he’s been building himself isn’t a fairytale, but it’s a lot more than he once thought he could achieve; he’s got his own apartment, a job he likes that pays the bills, he’s safe and far away from his childhood and his dad.

And Jesus, Mickey feels dumb and dramatic for even thinking about it, but it’s been even less of a shitshow ever since Ian. Weeks of stupid, wide-eyed happiness that Mickey sure as fuck didn’t ask for and didn’t know what to do with.

And now, well.

So Mickey goes to work and Ian doesn’t text him during breaks or sit at the counter when Mickey least expects it. It’s the latest screw-up in his long list if screw-ups, and okay, apparently he’s perfectly capable of doing his job and wallowing in self-pity at the same time.

“Alright, what’s eating at you?” asks Ella, his coworker, one night when they’re closing up the bar. Her motherly tone throws Mickey off. The chick can’t be even thirty yet.

“What are you talking about?”

Ella throws the dish rag onto the counter. “Don’t give me that, you’ve been sulking for a week. I keep worrying the next rude customer will make you snap, and we’ll have a lawsuit on our hands.”

It’s been eight days. Not that Mickey’s about to point that out. He shrugs.

“It’s personal”, he says, hopes it’s warning enough.

“We’ve known each other for a year”, Ella counters. “I barely know anything about you, but I do know the difference between your regular brand of asshole and this, whatever ‘weight of the world on my shoulders’ -version this is. You know it’s normal to talk your shit out with coworkers, right?”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that. He likes working with Ella, and he thinks he appreciates the offer, but he has no desire to spill his heart out to some girl he spends his nights pouring pints next to.

Something is bothering him (well, something besides the obvious) that night when he goes home, and he spends ridiculously long trying to figure out what it is. It hits him when he’s shoveling semi-warm leftover pasta into his mouth that it’s his birthday tomorrow. He’s turning twenty-four.

It’s strange. Generally, Mickey doesn’t spend too much time thinking about his birthday, but he doesn’t think he’s ever forgotten it. Maybe he’s had other things on his mind during the last few days. During the entire summer, if he’s being honest.

All in all, it turns out to be a very unremarkable birthday. It’s always pretty much the same as any other day of the year, so Mickey never bothers bringing it up. He goes to work, and no one there knows, so no one wishes him happy birthday. He goes home, he gets no cards or presents, only a text from Mandy. He celebrates by smoking a joint and eating ice cream straight from the tub.

It’s always been enough, and he hasn’t needed more since he was a little kid who thought birthdays were something special. Now there’s something underneath the pleasant haze of the weed he doesn’t like. If Ian were here, Mickey realizes, he would’ve found out about his birthday. He would’ve shared the tub of ice cream with Mickey, would’ve kissed him with cold lips, probably insisted singing him Happy Birthday or something equally as lame.

This, being alone, has always been enough because there’s never been anyone Mickey’s truly wanted around. Never anyone who he’d be willing to share the lame stuff with.

Yeah, birthdays are bullshit, but Ian is the only person in the world Mickey wants here, the only person in years he remembers craving the company of, the only person Mickey could _ever_ talk to. Suddenly he can’t breathe with how much he misses Ian, and he’s sitting on the couch, hunched forward with his throat tight and burning. He can’t _believe_ he isn’t trying harder to fix the shitshow of his life.

_Fuck,_ he thinks.

_Fuck_ hiding away and rejecting every good thing and keeping being miserable. _Fuck_ not making an effort.

The flash of red hair behind the shelves signals him that he was lucky in guessing Ian’s shifts this week, or alternatively, that there are two ginger hunks working at the same bookstore. No, it’s definitely the former, Mickey decides when the hunk in question turns around.

Ian’s eyes catch on him, a little surprised, but he reels his expression back almost immediately. He doesn’t look like he’s about to have Mickey thrown out of the store or run away at the sight of him, though, so there’s Mickey’s first victory.

Thank fuck it’s not the same woman behind the counter this time, watching Mickey shoot his shot. He takes a deep breath and walks over.

“What are you doing here?” Ian asks, face carefully blank. He looks like he’s thinking of something else but can’t exactly say it in front of his coworkers and customers.

Whatever confidence Mickey’s been able to gather up for this suddenly gets much harder to hold onto.

“I, uh”, he starts, glances around to make sure none of these assholes are trying to eavesdrop. “I figured I owed you a movie date.”

It’s a bold move, probably, but then again, it’s time to stop beating around the bush. Straight to business so he doesn’t have to prolong the agony of guessing between success and humiliating rejection.

Ian’s eyebrows go up, skeptical. “You don’t really owe me anything.”

“No, I know”, Mickey says, shifts uneasily on his feet. “Thought I’d ask anyway.”

“What happened to ‘it’s not working’?”

_You know that was bullshit_ , Mickey wants to say, _you know that was me being a coward and a quitter, nothing has ever worked for me in my entire_ life _like this has been_.

“Look, I-”, Mickey lowers his voice in case there are any kids around. Not that he’s ever cared before, but he doesn’t want Ian’s boss or anyone to hear and scold Ian for it later. “Feel free to tell me to fuck off, if you want. But seeing as I really messed up the whole movie night thing last time, I thought the least I could do was to offer you a new one.”

He’s shit at this, he knows, but he prays that it’s clear to Ian he’s not _really_ talking about the movie night.

It is, maybe, because Ian’s eyes soften just a bit, the pinch of his brow gets a little less pronounced. Mickey can’t help but watch him hungrily, take in the now achingly familiar lines of his face. It’s ridiculous, the relief he feels at seeing Ian again after barely more than a week apart.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Fair’s fair.”

“Gonna disappear on me?” Ian asks, not completely serious, but serious enough. Mickey probably deserves that question.

“No”, he hurries to say, meaning it more than anything. “Fuck, no.”

Ian pauses, hesitates, searches his face. Maybe for signs of insincerity. “What’d you have in mind?”

It’s more genuine curiosity than their usual teasing, but Mickey will take it.

“Thought we could go see a real movie, like at a theater, and I’ll pay for the tickets”, he suggests, stupidly nervous about it. He can’t help adding, “You’re gonna have to pick between popcorn and a slushee, though. I ain’t made of money.”

“Hm”, Ian says, like he’s considering, but there’s already some of that warmth seeping through, the kind that sets his face aglow. It’s faint, but it’s there, sending Mickey’s heart stuttering. “Yeah, okay. I’m off at three.”

That’s nearly two hours away, and Mickey spends the time impatiently browsing the nearby shops. He looks at ugly ties and overpriced tea and old CDs (and finds a coffee mug with a stupid pun he immediately thinks Ian would love, the cheesy dork), until it’s five to three.

Ian’s chatting with a coworker when he gets back to the store, all ready to go. It sends a weird, déjà vu -like feeling squirming in Mickey’s stomach, but he refuses to think of the last time they left here together, and what happened after. It’s exactly what he’s trying to turn around.

When they’re walking, Ian isn’t as chatty as usual, but he doesn’t seem angry or uncomfortable, either. It’s a good sign, and Mickey knows that there’s still a lot of shit from last time that needs to be addressed at some point or another, and that it’s probably up to him to take the lead. He’s certainly not looking forward to talking about shit, but he figures any uncomfortable discussion has to be better than the alternative. Mostly, he’s afraid he won’t say the right thing.

Making an effort, right?

“Hey”, Mickey says and bumps lightly into Ian’s hip. “I’m trying to date you, just so we’re clear. This is a date. This is me trying to make it work.”

Ian cracks a tiny little smile. “Not a booty call?”

It’s a joke, but there’s a hint of real hurt underneath. Mickey remembers how their fight ended.

“You think I’d waste my money buying popcorn if I just wanted to get some?” Mickey asks, mock-serious. “Nah, man. I think this might be serious.”

The smile gets a smidge wider, even if Ian bites into his lip to keep from showing it.

There aren’t many box office hits playing this early in the afternoon, but they settle for some cheesy-looking action flick. Mickey buys a big tub of popcorn and a Coke (and why the fuck don’t they serve beer in movie theaters?), complaining about the prices the entire time, partly because he really does think they’re outrageous, and partly for the joy of having someone to complain to. Ian chooses a blue raspberry slushee because he has the taste buds of a seven-year-old, apparently, and doesn’t even blink at Mickey rolling his eyes.

The movie is nothing special, predictable plot and so many unnecessary explosions it was probably directed by Michael Bay, so Mickey doesn’t feel too bad about not being able to pay attention at all. Instead, he’s focused on Ian sitting beside him in the darkness, reaching over to grab handfuls of popcorn from the tub in Mickey’s lap, their elbows brushing every once in a while on the shared armrest.

It’s good, like a weight off Mickey’s shoulders, just being close to Ian again. They don’t even have to talk. It’s enough to listen to him slurping at his blue, frozen monstrosity of a drink, his little, exasperated sighs when the plot doesn’t make sense, and Mickey swears he can hear Ian rolling his eyes at the most unrealistic stunts.

Mickey’s, like, two seconds away from being a total dumbass and sliding his arm around Ian on the backrest.

He doesn’t. The movie ends, and they get up and head back to the lobby.

“Well, that sucked”, Ian comments.

Mickey can’t help but agree. Still, he elbows Ian’s side, just because he can. “Hey, rule number one of getting free stuff: don’t complain about the free stuff.”

“Oh, I thought this was compensatory movie date”, Ian says, elbows him back. “Pretty sure the code for that is different.”

Mickey huffs, unable to disguise his glee. “Whatever, bitch.”

Ian shoves him a little harder, but there’s still a playful edge to it. “Rule number one of compensatory dates: don’t verbally abuse the person you’re supposed to be making shit up to.”

Mickey grins. It feels so normal, so easy, like this is the natural order of things, little pieces of his shitshow of a life clicking together effortlessly.

“Oh, shit”, he says when they reach the entrance. It’s raining, no, it’s _pouring_ , like every drop of rain in the city of Chicago has been waiting for this particular August afternoon to come down. Neither of them has umbrellas, or even jackets.

“Oh, shit”, Ian echoes.

They take off running, but they could as well be standing in the rain for all the good it does them. They get soaked immediately, warm rainwater darkening their hair and flattening it down, seeping into their clothes and flowing down their faces.

“My place is closer”, Ian says over the sound of the rain, and Mickey takes it as an invitation.

Ian sprints down the street with his long-ass legs and Mickey struggles to keep up. He can’t remember moving this fast since he was running from the cops. Soon his heart is pounding, lungs burning, but he doesn’t mind, because Ian keeps glancing back at him in challenge, picking up speed when Mickey curses at him.

They get to Ian’s apartment building and somehow manage to climb up to the second floor after their impromptu race. Mickey can hear his heart in his ears when he steps into the apartment, immediately bending over and putting his hands on his knees. Fuck, his side is stinging like a motherfucker.

“Hold on”, Ian says, kicking his wet shoes off and disappearing momentarily.

Mickey tries to catch his breath. There’s already a puddle on the floor where he’s standing, water dripping down steadily from his hair and clothes.

Ian comes back with a towel over his shoulders, another in his hand. He doesn’t seem nearly as winded as Mickey, the fit motherfucker. Before Mickey can reach for the towel, Ian is in his personal space, drying him off without so much as a question.

Ian rubs his hair dry, hands steady and comforting against Mickey’s head even through the towel. Mickey’s frozen, left staring, heartbeat not slowing down, his body fucking _singing_ at being this close to Ian again.

Then Ian moves the towel to his face, dries off his forehead and cheeks with care. When his eyes flit to Mickey’s, all tender and focused like this is the single most important task of the day, Mickey gets a little dizzy. The towel moves, and Ian’s bare thumb brushes against the skin just under Mickey’s eye.

Ian pauses, doesn’t take his eyes off Mickey. Mickey thinks he might be holding his breath.

After that, he probably loses a second of time, because the next thing he knows is that they’re kissing, pushing against each other despite the wet clothes between them, Ian’s hands framing his face, warm and perfect.

Ian sighs into his mouth, and Mickey’s brain goes _yes, yes, yes_ , frantic and shaky, overwhelmed with the need to cling on tightly and never let a thing like this go again.

Then, as suddenly as it started, Ian pulls back but doesn’t let go, light pink dusting his face that’s still only inches from Mickey’s. His hair is fluffy and curling from being dried with a towel, his eyes dark and mouth parted, close enough for Mickey to count the smattering of freckles on his cheeks. He’s so, _so_ beautiful.

“We should probably get some dry clothes”, Ian says, small and careful, sort of stunned, like he isn’t sure what they should do.

“Probably”, Mickey breathes, a small laugh escaping.

It makes Ian chuckle, too, wide-eyed but genuine. He detaches his hands from Mickey’s face, and the fact that he looks like he doesn’t want to makes Mickey feel tons better about it. While Ian leaves to get them both a change of clothes, Mickey removes his own shoes, scrubs the towel over his chest and arms until Ian comes back and throws boxers at his head.

They strip in the living room, hang the wet clothes to dry in silence. It’s not awkward, they’ve seen each other naked plenty, but it is a little weird, losing their clothes together without the intent to have sex. Ian keeps shooting him little glances, though, eyes flitting to Mickey’s bare chest and Mickey obviously can’t keep from appreciating the subtle movement of Ian’s muscles as he’s pulling his clothes on.

Ian’s sweatshirt is too big for Mickey, so he has to roll the sleeves up. It makes him feel like a kid, sort of, but the familiar smell on the clothes more than makes up for it. Mickey wants to pull the collar over his face, curl up with it, and maybe he would if the owner of the shirt wasn’t standing in the same room. Mickey’s not ready to be that embarrassing.

“Want something to drink?” Ian asks. He’s all warm and cozy-looking now, in his worn-out hoodie and sweatpants. “I can put coffee on.”

As he says it, Mickey realizes he is a little chilly from the wet clothes and the air-conditioned apartment. “Yeah, sure.”

Ian doesn’t take too long in the kitchen, and soon they’re both sitting on the couch, more distance between them than usually. As nice as the kiss was, it clearly didn’t magically erase every uncertain thing they’ve got floating in the air.

“So, how do you rate this one?” Mickey asks, because making a joke has always been easier. “Like on a scale from ‘complete mess-up’ to ‘would do it again and definitely let the guy suck my dick next time’?”

It makes Ian laugh. “Well, if you ignore the dumb movie and the tropical storm-”

“What? How am I supposed to control the fucking weather?”

“-I guess it wasn’t too bad”, Ian finishes, peering at Mickey with his head tilted and a smile like he means it.

“Alright”, Mickey says, somewhat embarrassed. He resists the urge to look away. “Think the coffee’s done.” When Ian makes a move to get up, Mickey stops him. “No, I’ll get it.”

He goes to the kitchen, grateful for the chance to move a bit. It makes it easier not to let the looming discomfort settle in. He knows they have to talk, and even though they’re already past the first ten worst-case scenarios Mickey had imagined, talking and dealing with things the rational way has never been his strong suit. He’s trying for real now, and he might be a thousand times better at it than when he was a teenager, but that still isn’t saying much.

As he’s pouring the coffee, Ian’s phone vibrates on the counter, the screen lighting up. He must’ve left it there earlier. Mickey grabs it and heads back to the living room, sets the mugs on the coffee table and tosses the phone to Ian.

“You’re blowing up”, he jokes.

Ian swipes it open, and his face darkens. With a scoff, he tosses the phone away.

Mickey’s glad he’s not at the receiving end of _that_ face. “Who are you gonna murder?”

“It’s Lip”, Ian explains with disdain, which is strange, since they’re usually best buddies. “Asking about the next family weekend. I always go, but…I might break his nose if I even hear him speak right now.”

Mickey can’t help himself. “No way. Phillip Gallagher, South Side’s most tactful and thoughtful, loved by everyone? You mad at him?”

Some of the hostility drops from Ian’s face, replaced by amusement. “Shut up. Yeah. I might’ve had a talk with him before I came to see you last time.”

Mickey freezes, suddenly not feeling too kind towards Lip, either.

That’s how Ian found out about the marriage. Of fucking course. Mickey just might join him in breaking his shithead brother’s face; the asshole never knew how to keep his mouth shut when he should’ve, and Mickey’s willing to bet that besides the seemingly suspicious heterosexual marriage, there aren’t many great things he has to say about Mickey.

“And how’d that go?” he asks.

Ian slumps into the couch, rubs his hands down his face. “Almost as well as our talk. Though you probably guessed as much.”

“Yeah”, Mickey sighs. Here they are.

“Yeah”, Ian echoes, sounding tired, looking at his hands curled in his lap. “He was actually… Well. He doesn’t think too highly of you.”

“Figured as much.”

“And I don’t want to put this on him”, Ian says. “But he said some shit, and it really got to me. Made me overthink everything. Guess I was feeling insecure about the whole thing when I came to see you, but I shouldn’t have cornered you like that. Knew it wouldn’t help.”

Ian has some regrets as well, Mickey realizes, about the way things went down. Which is, well… Mickey definitely doesn’t hold any of it against him.

“It’s not on you”, he says and picks up his mug of coffee just to have something to do with his hands. “You just wanted to talk, and I…”

He falls silent, pinches his lips together.

“You going to?”

“What?”

Ian is looking at him now, eyes soft but determined. “If I want to talk now, are you going to?”

Mickey blows out a breath. It’s shaky. “Man, you gotta put me on the spot like that?”

“You knew I wasn’t gonna let you off that easy”, Ian says it like he’s sorry, but not really. That’s fair.

Mickey doesn’t have a good answer to his question. Short version, he’s scared. He’s scared of letting Ian down again, regardless of whether or not he lets him in. But the thing is, he can’t have both; Ian and the box of bad feelings locked tightly, the physical closeness and the emotional distance. He’s not sure if the even wants to. Twenty-four years is a long time to hold things inside. But he’s scared, and he can’t magically change that.

“You were right”, he ends up saying, hands tight around his mug. “I got some issues with that. Got some issues, period. Last time, I… Shit, didn’t even know what happened before it had already happened. Freaked me the fuck out.”

“I meant what I said about not shutting me out, Mickey”, Ian says, quiet and serious. “About disappearing. You need some alone time, that’s fine, but you can’t do that. Had me worried as shit.”

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut. The thought of Ian worrying about him makes his stomach hurt. “I know. Shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that, either. Told you I’d suck at this.”

Ian’s expression softens, a hint of a smile around his lips, and Mickey’s heart soars. Everything hasn’t been lost yet, it’s not too late to say _something_ , and Mickey kind of wants to crawl onto Ian’s side of the couch and press them both into that corner just to get as close as possible. 

“I don’t think you suck at every part”, Ian says. Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever been happier upon hearing that he doesn’t suck at something. “I think you’re doing pretty okay right now.”

“For the record, none of it was about you”, Mickey admits. “Not really.”

“I know. Same here. I mean, I _was_ pretty pissed, but it was…” Ian shakes his head, frustrated, and picks up the other mug.

“Lip’s bullshit, huh?”

Ian nods, sips his coffee. “He thinks he knows you better than I do.”

And isn’t _that_ the most laughable thing Mickey’s ever heard?

“Guess he was the one that told you I was married back then”, Mickey lets it hang in the air before Ian gives the slightest tip of chin to indicate that yeah, that was indeed the thing Lip felt the need to disclose during their heart-to-heart. “You know that wasn’t real, right? I mean, it happened, but it wasn’t _real_.”

He watches Ian nod again in his peripheral vision, because he’s looking at his own hands in his lap to keep from thinking about it too hard.

“I figured”, Ian says and tilts his head against the backrest. “I had no reason to bring up shit I know nothing about. I just let myself think it meant you were hiding things from me because you didn’t care. I’ve had enough of that.”

It’s sad and small, and Mickey’s heart breaks a little. He never wants to make Ian feel like that. Never again. Fuck anyone who has. Before Mickey has the chance to say anything to that, Ian continues.

“I used to just attach myself to guys I barely knew, convince myself it was love. Wasn’t, obviously.” He laughs humorlessly. “Just me, not wanting to deal with my own shit. Turns out, you make bad decisions when you’re feeling like crap, so. Serial liars and cheaters and emotionally distant assholes.”

“Fuck them”, Mickey says heatedly.

“Lip is never letting it go. Though, with my track record, I don’t know if I can blame him.”

“Well, fuck him too”, Mickey insists. “Listen, Ian, none of that’s on you. Bad decisions or whatever, you aren’t supposed to be treated like shit, and you don’t gotta beat yourself up over it. And I- fuck, I don’t know if I’m the best person to say this, because I’m definitely not a great guy or a dream boyfriend or anything, and I might screw up some more. But I give a shit about this. About you, you know. This is-”

He trails off awkwardly, sort of embarrassed by his honest but equally stilted words. He rubs a hand down his face before he dares to look back at Ian.

Ian’s got a soft smile on his face. “You said boyfriend.”

Mickey’s breath catches in his throat. Fuck, he did. It just came out.

“Shut up”, he says on instinct, but he can feel himself going red. Ian just laughs, and it’s more than worth the struggle it takes for some of the words to come out. It’s fucking stupid, how far gone Mickey is, even stupider how he thought, even for a moment, that he could stay away. “Okay, dickhead. Shut the fuck up so I can kiss you.”

The way Ian’s eyes shine at that tells Mickey he doesn’t have any objections. He doesn’t seem to mind that Mickey’s not ready to fully address the whole boyfriend thing. Maybe he’s taking too little, the smallest of promises, letting Mickey off too easy, but _God_ , Mickey doesn’t care. He wants to kiss Ian, make sure he hasn’t forgotten what it feels like, because the one earlier wasn’t nearly enough.

“Okay”, Ian simply says, and it’s all the permission Mickey needs to set his coffee down, barely waiting for Ian to do the same before he climbs fully into his lap and brings their lips together.

He feels Ian laugh into it, at Mickey’s obnoxious enthusiasm, and nothing has ever matched the unfiltered joy it sends through his body.

Mickey ends up staying the night. They watch gameshows on the TV until they get hungry, at which point Ian gets up to wrap them both chicken fajitas. They’re fucking delicious, even if Ian insists he’s not much of a cook and snickers at the way Mickey wolfs down his. They _are_ good, but the thing Mickey’s missed even more is eating together. And he absolutely doesn’t complain about the part where Ian sits nearly glued to his side, plate in his lap, and presses a kiss right above Mickey’s ear. It’s still strange, but good-strange. The kind Mickey longs to get used to.

When Ian starts yawning and shivering tiredly, Mickey elbows him and says, “Time for bed, grandpa.”

The toothbrush Mickey used last time is still there. He brushes his teeth and sheds the borrowed clothes and crawls under the covers on the same side he had before. Ian comes to bed soon after, smiling dopily at the sight of Mickey waiting for him. He looks good, happy and comfortable, and Mickey watches the way his t-shirt is pulled tight over his chest when he stretches. Honestly, Mickey’s feeling too content to even be horny, which sounds weird, but this is exactly how he wants to end this day.

Ian leans over to kiss him, thumb coming to rest on his temple. Mickey leans back, closes his eyes.

Their shifts clash the next day, and Ian leaves in the morning before Mickey’s even properly awake. He places the spare key on the bedside table for Mickey so he can get in later that night when Ian’s most likely already asleep by the time Mickey’s shift ends.

Mickey would love to stay here until Ian comes back, but he has to swing by his own apartment to get some clothes that fit properly. He can’t even imagine the raised eyebrows he would have to endure if he showed up to work in what were _clearly_ somebody else’s clothes.

There might be some weird, borderline dirty satisfaction to be found in the thought of other people seeing that the guy Mickey gets to be with is obviously big and tall and broad. Like maybe they would know, instinctually, that he’s pretty great in other ways, too. That it’s Ian, who anyone in their right mind would be proud of telling people about.

Mickey's not actually ready for anything like that, but he likes the thought.

Work is work. Mickey spends the night on autopilot, his thoughts barely leaving the fact that he gets to go back to Ian’s instead of spending another night in a row alone in his own apartment. The spare key is burning a hole in his front pocket. They’ve stayed over at each other’s places before, but this feels like a big step. It makes Mickey excited, if a little frightened. It’s not like he’s moving in.

“Glad to see you fixed your shit”, Ella says when Mickey is leaving.

“Huh?”

She gestures at him. “You’re doing better. I think you might’ve even been accidentally nice to a customer today.”

Mickey is comfortable enough with her to flip her off. He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting she’s right.

The apartment is dark when Mickey gets back. He gets ready for bed as quietly as possible, opens the bedroom door to see Ian on his side, facing the middle of the bed and presumably fast asleep. The movement of Mickey slipping under the covers, his back to Ian, makes Ian stir and shift.

“You’re here”, he mumbles sleepily, hand settling onto Mickey’s waist.

“Yeah”, Mickey whispers into the silent room.

“Mm. Good.”

Mickey starts to think Ian has fallen back asleep when there’s nothing but soft breath against his neck for a while. He closes his eyes.

“Mick?” Ian actually sounds more awake than he was before. “Want you to know something.”

“Hmm?”

“I know I said before that I want you to tell me things, but you don’t have to share every detail of your life at once. Don’t feel like you have to.”

Mickey waits. It’s a strange time to bring it up. “Okay.”

“Whatever happened, the thing that scares you”, Ian says, and it’s clear he’s talking about the night Mickey beat up the guy and ran. It makes Mickey tense up, but Ian’s voice is gentle, not accusing. “I just wanna know you’re okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready, but if you want to, I’m here.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that. No one’s ever told him that before. No one’s ever given a shit if he was scared or not.

“Okay?” Ian asks, presses his forehead against Mickey’s neck. The brush of his hair tickles, but mostly it just feels really, really good.

“Okay”, Mickey manages to croak out. His eyes are burning a little, and there’s that familiar, clawing need to escape, to fight it every step of the way, but it’s easier in the darkness of the bedroom, when he can’t see Ian but he can feel the thrum of pulse on the wrist resting on Mickey’s waist.

Ian wouldn’t judge him. Ian already knows some of the worst parts of him, and he’s still here.

Mickey breathes, lets the feeling wash over him. He breathes in and breathes out and finally, when the puffs of air against his neck have already evened out to soft snores, Mickey falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly done! Things are starting to look bright again!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one! I'm so grateful for the response I've gotten from you, just putting out there that I love every single one of you<3
> 
> Heads up, this chapter references stuff from 3x06 a little more in detail, but still nothing graphic.

The end of August goes by fast, shifts into September, and Ian’s classes start again. He keeps taking shifts at the bookstore, which means his free time gets considerably scarcer and late-night essay-writing sessions more frequent. Mickey’s had to kick his ass to bed once or twice after coming from work and finding him half-asleep on the couch, books open on the coffee table.

They stay at Ian’s apartment mostly now, even though it’s smaller. Ian’s got a shit-ton of work and being in his own space makes it more bearable. Mickey being around definitely does.

They’re working. Turns out clearing the air truly once did some good. Ian thinks they hear each other better now, in a way; he trusts enough to give Mickey space, pushes only gently when he thinks it’s needed. Mickey’s trying, viciously so, to be honest and open even if Ian knows he’s more of a man of action.

Not that Ian doesn’t appreciate the action part; Mickey, making coffee while looking like the world’s most adorable zombie when Ian has to leave early for class sometimes, bringing him snacks when Ian can’t tear himself away from his books. Mickey holding Ian’s hand when they’re walking together, grip just a bit too tight to indicate it’s something he isn’t used to and that still feels unfamiliar and scary. The goodnight kisses and good morning blowjobs and everything in between.

Still, there’s something inherently special about words to Ian, something that sends his heart soaring every time Mickey consciously makes an effort on that front.

When Mickey comes to the bookstore to wait for Ian to get off work and catches him with a customer, and tells him later, with a soft look on his face, “Hey, you’re pretty good at that. Gonna be a kickass teacher, man.”

When it’s the other way around, Ian coming to sit at the bar on his free night and Mickey chatting with him every time there’s a lull in the flow of customers, and as the other employees start casting knowing glances at them, Mickey introducing Ian, sort of red-faced, as the guy he’s dating.

Shit is truly working out, and Ian eases himself from “carefully hopeful” to “enthusiastically hopeful”.

That’s how he certainly feels when he gets home from a jog on a Sunday morning to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Mickey clattering around in the kitchen. Mickey’s actually really good at making pancakes, probably because he loves eating them. Ian suspects he would gladly give up all other breakfast foods forever.

It’s like a magnet, the way Ian has to step behind Mickey immediately where he’s standing in front of the stove, wrap his arms around Mickey’s middle and leaning his chin on his shoulder.

“Hi”, Ian murmurs, mouth on Mickey’s ear in a way that makes him shiver.

“Fucking- I just took a shower and you’re all fucking sweaty”, Mickey complains, but cranes his neck to reach for a kiss when Ian noses at his cheek persistently.

They stay like that until Ian starts getting a little too handsy, fingers brushing the soft skin below Mickey’s navel. It makes Mickey slap his thigh, intentionally aiming for the part that isn’t covered by running shorts.

“Alright, get the fuck out of here before I burn these”, he orders firmly. It makes Ian smile. Should’ve known pancakes aren’t to be messed with.

He takes a quick shower and joins Mickey for breakfast. Neither of them is working today, and Ian’s assignments are done for the week, a rare occurrence of their schedules lining up perfectly. He’s expecting a slow day with lots of TV and unhurried sex in various locations. The fact that they don’t have to limit their activities to the bedroom is one of the top reasons Ian loves having his own apartment. Which reminds him-

“Need to talk to you about something.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, mouth full of pancake. “Wha?”

“Fiona called while I was out”, Ian says, twirling the fork in his hand. He’s sort of nervous about this. “I’m going home for the weekend two weeks from now.”

“Uh-huh”, Mickey says. It’s not news. Ian does that often enough.

“And I was wondering- No pressure, by the way, if you don’t want to.” Ian pauses, takes a breath. “But I thought it would be nice if you came with me this time.”

Mickey’s eyes snap to his, and Ian can tell he’s stopping himself from going by his first instinct, which is a forceful “fuck no”. Mickey chews, swallows, looks uneasy as fuck.

“Isn’t it a little early to do the whole ‘meeting the family’ thing?”

“It wouldn’t be like an official thing”, Ian assures him. “Everyone’s not even going to be home. It’s just Fiona, Liam and maybe Carl. Debbie’s with her friends for the weekend and Lip’s too busy with school.”

Mickey’s lips press together at the mention of Lip. Ian and his brother are fine now, but Mickey’s not letting go of that grudge anytime soon. Ian gets it, and he’s not too eager to introduce them to each other; he’d be pissed, too, if someone badmouthed him and aired his dirty laundry, so to speak, no matter the intention. Besides, Ian isn’t sure if _he_ could hold back from actually punching Lip in the face if something similar went down again. No, better leave the whole thing alone for a while.

“They’re fine”, Ian tries. “Liam’s cool with everyone and Fiona will be too busy asking if have enough money for food or if I’m failing my classes to even know you’re there.”

“I dunno.”

Mickey still looks uneasy, his eyes darting around the room, hand tight around his fork. He’s even more antsy than Ian thought he would be, and Ian realizes it isn’t his usual case of merely not wanting to talk to people.

“Mick”, he says, keeps his voice soft and even. “Is there a reason why you don’t want to go back?”

The pause in Mickey’s breathing tell Ian he guessed correctly. Shit. Guess there’s more to the story than just there being nothing in South Side to go back to.

“Bad memories?” Ian prods gently.

Mickey presses a hand against his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Yeah. I mean. Like everyone else.”

Ian pushes his plate of unfinished pancakes aside. “You wanna tell me about it?”

Ian knows he’s inching to the territory of shit they’ve mostly left alone. He’d be an idiot to think Mickey didn’t have some pretty awful stuff weighing him down from when he was a kid. That neighborhood, that family, it’s more than likely. Ian sure as hell does, fuck, his whole family does, and there are countless shitty things they don’t know about each other’s lives yet.

But he doesn’t like seeing how much it’s hurting Mickey. He wants to let him go at his own pace, but his gut squirms uncomfortably every time he remembers the vicious, terrified defensiveness in Mickey he got to witness that night out on the street.

“Why do you want me there so bad, anyway?” Mickey asks, deflecting the question.

 _I want you everywhere_ , Ian stops himself from saying.

“Same reason I want you hanging around here, making pancakes and drinking all my juice, you fucking idiot. Kinda like spending time with you.”

Mickey makes a face like he’s offended, but Ian knows he’s not at all phased by the insult; it’s to cover up the note of softness underneath, caused by the _other_ parts of that sentence.

“Could be a little more grateful when someone makes you breakfast, asshat.”

Ian wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh, I’ll show you later exactly how grateful I am.”

Mickey suppresses a smirk. “Quit fucking bribing me with your dick.”

“I only do it ‘cause I know it works every time. Getting me all the pancakes I want.”

“Jesus”, Mickey groans. “I hope you’re not expecting me to make breakfast to your siblings.”

Ian perks up at that. “So you are coming?”

Mickey, successfully distracted from their original conversation by talk of dick and pancakes, drops the playful expression instantly. “Fuck, man. I don’t know.”

It’s better than nothing, Ian guesses. He watches Mickey get up from the table and start cleaning up, body language stiff and guarded. He isn’t leaving, though, isn’t closing the door on the conversation, so Ian knows something is coming.

Mickey doesn’t continue until he’s scrubbed the shit out of the frying pan in an unnecessarily aggressive manner, water spraying all over the tiled backsplash, likely getting some frustration out in the process.

“Look”, he says, turns back to face Ian, but stays a safe distance away. Ian can tell he’s steeling himself from the way he crosses his arms, clenching his jaw. “I never planned on going back, ‘cause the only people there who know me either don’t give a shit about me or want to kill me.”

It doesn’t take long for Ian to connect the dots and figure out Mickey is talking about his dad. As fucked up as it is, it makes sense. He can’t imagine Terry Milkovich being thrilled about having a gay son. There used to be all kinds of horrifying rumors flying around about the man.

“He, uh”, Mickey continues, then pauses to wipe the back of his hand over his mouth. “He already tried, once. I don’t really feel like giving him another chance.”

“Mick”, Ian says. “You don’t have to-”

“Yeah, I fucking know”, Mickey snaps, and Ian falls quiet. “Fuck. Sorry. Yes, I know.”

His head falls between his shoulders momentarily, helpless and defeated, and Ian has to fight to stay seated, battle the urge to stand up and go to him, gather him up in his arms and offer his own shoulder instead.

“He caught me once. With another guy.” Mickey’s voice is quiet but determined, and Ian’s breath seizes in his lungs because _Christ_ , he can’t even imagine. Mickey’s here, clearly, very much alive, but Ian can’t stop the gut reaction of fear he gets from picturing it.

“Beat the shit out of us both. Thought I was gonna die for sure.” Mickey takes a moment to breathe, in and out, unsteady but carefully controlled. “Broke my nose and like three ribs and got a concussion from the pistol handle.”

“Oh, God”, Ian breathes. From the _pistol handle_. “What- How did you-”

“Stupid motherfucker thought he could still turn me straight”, Mickey scoffs sharply like there’s something amusing about it. The tightness in his voice indicates that it’s far from the truth. “Which is probably why I’m still alive. Called this Russian hooker over and told us we were gonna be man and wife from now on.”

And this is not even in the ballpark of what Ian had imagined. Suddenly he doesn’t wonder at all why Mickey’s defenses go up so easily.

“How’d you get away?”

Mickey shrugs, but it turns into a shiver, like an unwanted memory traveling through his body. “Waited ‘til he went back to prison and took off. She didn’t need much convincing to sign the divorce papers. Guess she’d realized I wasn’t ever gonna be up for banging her without a gun pointed at my head for encouragement.”

It’s meant to be a joke, maybe, but to say it falls flat would be an understatement. The bottom of Ian’s stomach feels like lead. How could anyone be capable of that? How could anyone do that to their own child? He thinks back to when he fucking _accused_ Mickey of this, held it against him like a weapon. Sure, Ian didn’t know then, but right now he’d love nothing more than to punch himself in the face for it.

Mickey wipes a thumb under one of his eyes, gaze cast downwards and tightness around his mouth, and Ian tries to find even one word that makes sense.

“Mickey.”

“Don’t”, Mickey cuts him off, rough but not angry. He clears his throat. “You don’t gotta- I know. Shit’s fucked up. I’m fine.”

Ian doesn’t fully buy that, but okay. Mickey doesn’t need him to be sorry, he just needs him _there_. He stays quiet, lets Mickey gather up his thoughts.

“Sometimes it’s just. It was _months_ , you know?” Mickey blows out a frustrated breath, the line of his shoulders tightening. “Before I left. Should’ve had the balls to do it sooner. And I don’t even know what happened to the other guy. Maybe I- Well. Too late now, anyway. Never saw him again.”

“Jesus, _no_ ”, Ian argues. “Don’t say that. You were keeping yourself safe, that’s the most important thing.”

Mickey doesn’t look like he really believes Ian, but he doesn’t argue, either.

“Kinda feels like I can’t make good things last.”

“That’s bullshit”, Ian says, because he hears the undercurrent of self-blame, the same one Mickey probably feels about everything that went momentarily wrong with them, too. “That has nothing to do with what _someone else_ did to you.”

“Well, anyways”, Mickey says, effectively shutting down _that_ conversation. “I’m not exactly looking forward to a Milkovich family reunion.”

“You know where your dad is now?”

Mickey shakes his head. “No. Could be back home, could be in prison. Best-case scenario, fucker’s dead.”

“Yeah”, Ian says darkly. The flare of anger that follows the shock and sadness is unexpected but not unreasonable, in his opinion. There’s something fierce and protective stabbing at him from the inside. “Would fucking kill him myself if I got the chance.”

The weight of his voice makes Mickey’s eyes snap to his, full of surprise. Ian almost thinks he’s gone too far, that maybe threatening to murder someone’s dad isn’t an acceptable thing to do in any situation, no matter how much of a monster the dad in question is.

He doesn’t have time to backtrack, doesn’t know if he even could because he meant every word he just said, because Mickey is detaching himself from the counter and stalking across the room and flinging a leg over Ian’s.

Then Mickey is kissing him hard, with purpose, knocking the wind out of Ian with the force of it. Ian’s hands find his waist on instinct, the touch a little more careful than usual; the vulnerable thing is still there, underneath, small and bare and Ian is afraid of holding on too hard.

Mickey’s having none of that. The second he gets a response, he’s yanking Ian’s head back by the hair to deepen the kiss, causing a rough moan to tumble out of Ian’s throat. Ian digs his fingers in, feels the shape of Mickey’s ribs under his shirt, real and solid and comforting.

When Mickey pulls away, still half-draped over Ian’s lap, he looks surprisingly serious, but most importantly, he looks _okay_. Like Ian’s just done something extremely important.

“I didn’t know talking about murder would get you so hot”, Ian says, squeezing Mickey’s sides lightly.

“Shut up”, Mickey says, sounding breathless and embarrassed, a barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey”, Ian murmurs, pulls Mickey’s face down a bit. He feels a little sappy about it, giving Mickey comfort like this, in the most unusual way. “I like that.”

Then, when they’re both back in their own chairs, a little less raw and a little less out of breath, Ian says, “I’m obviously not going to pressure you about coming along, I totally get not wanting to.”

Mickey glances at him.

“But if you do come, you’re gonna be with me”, Ian continues. “Not at your old house, not with any of the people you knew back then. With me, and you know I’ll have your back no matter what.”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s fine. I’m just saying, maybe it’d be a chance to create some new memories to bury the bad ones a little deeper.”

And Mickey doesn’t shoot him down. He contemplates Ian’s words, and then he says, _promises_ , “I’ll think about it.”

He mulls it over for a week. Ian doesn’t bring it up once, doesn’t push him on this, just lets Mickey have that conversation with himself like he needs, decide what he wants and what he’s ready for. Ian’s starting to realize it’s not something he’s had the option to do many times before.

“I think you’re right”, Mickey says on Monday night, four days before Ian is supposed to go home.

Ian’s in bed, reading, and he looks up at Mickey standing in the doorway. He’s got that _look_ again, steely and determined, so Ian doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about. He puts the book away, waits while Mickey sits on the edge of the mattress.

“About going back. Maybe I should, to make it-”, he waves a hand vaguely.

“To make it less of a huge thing”, Ian offers.

Mickey nods. “I don’t wanna keep thinking about it, so. Fuck it.”

Ian cracks up laughing from delighted surprise and pushes away from the headboard to settle behind Mickey. “Fuck it?”

“Yeah, fuck it”, Mickey agrees, leaning back against Ian.

The certainty looks good on him. Like it’s just that simple. Ian ducks down to press his smile against Mickey’s neck, the pulse point between his jaw and throat, tries to convey the overwhelming affection fluttering inside him.

“I’ll call Fiona in the morning. It’ll be good.”

“Better not think I’ll be making any fucking small talk with your family.”

Ian grins hard enough that his cheeks ache. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Friday morning sun slithering from between the blinds makes Ian blink awake before his alarm. Or maybe it’s the simmering excitement he feels in his gut knowing that the warm lump of a person in his arms is coming home with him today.

The place where they both came from, the place they both survived, and now they’re going back together, as a unit, as a couple. It’s sort of poetic.

Ian presses closer until Mickey’s breathing pattern changes to signal he’s waking up as well.

“Morning”, Ian mumbles and tightens his hold when Mickey starts squirming sleepily.

Mickey grumbles an unintelligible answer but reaches back to card his fingers through Ian’s hair immediately when Ian mouths a kiss into his neck. Sometimes Ian thinks how Mickey likes cuddling, likes spooning when they’re sleeping, likes lazy mornings together, and he goes a little wild because he would’ve never dared to believe it that first night they went home together.

Not in a million years, but here they are. Ian thinks he has the right to go a little wild.

“Jesus, you gonna let me wake up first?” Mickey groans when Ian throws a leg over his to grind their bodies together.

“Well hurry the fuck up”, Ian says and kisses him again, filthy and wet.

“Trying to get it out of your system before we gotta hang out with your family?” Mickey asks and presses his ass back against Ian’s crotch. The smug smirk in his voice reveals how he feels about Ian clearly finding him irresistible.

“No, I’m planning on being horny for you all weekend.”

“Insatiable fucker”, Mickey laughs as Ian starts tugging his boxers down but moves things along without further complain by tossing Ian the bottle of lube from the nightstand.

“Got that right.”

The position is a bit awkward for prep, but Ian manages, one-handed, the other one pushing Mickey’s shirt up to play with his nipples. Few things get Mickey as worked up as fast as the two sensations together and by the time Ian slides into his ass the laughter has turned into soft moaning.

They got tested together a few weeks ago to get rid of condoms, and it’s exactly as good as Ian predicted. He gets teenage-levels horny for it, although he suspects he would’ve fucking _died_ if he’d gotten to fuck Mickey as a teenager (and he knows for a fact they would’ve both been too stupid to worry about protection).

It’s slow and deep, achingly intimate, and soon enough Ian is gripping Mickey’s thigh to pull his leg up, to open him up better for Ian’s thrusts.

“Oh, holy shit”, Mickey slurs, one of his hands shooting back to grab Ian’s waist for support.

Ian presses his forehead between Mickey’s shoulder blades when he finishes, then keeps his softening dick inside Mickey when he helps him jerk off, their hands molded together. It’s ridiculously hot, ridiculously sweet, and Ian has to smile through it.

He can’t get the smile to fade all morning. He’s full of childish, giddy glee that makes him crowd Mickey against the kitchen counter after breakfast, kiss the corner of his mouth, his upper lip. He tastes like milk and sugary cereal, another one of his favorite breakfast foods.

“Would you calm down?” Mickey groans, like he can tell what Ian is thinking. “You’re acting like we’re going on a fucking honeymoon.”

His hand settling on Ian’s neck, his thumb brushing the strands of hair next to Ian’s ear, means he’s not really that annoyed.

“Let me enjoy this in peace”, Ian says, pressing against Mickey’s hand.

Mickey huffs. “You know I’ll want to leave as soon as we get there, right?”

“Aw”, Ian croons, leans in again to bump their noses together, speak right against Mickey’s lips, deliberately annoying and overtly sweet. “You just want to spend time alone with me. That’s so romantic.”

It makes Mickey tug his hair sharply. “Nah, it’s just that one Gallagher at a time is the most I can deal with.”

“You love having me around.” Ian has to retaliate by pinching Mickey’s bare thigh. Just to balance out the sweetness a bit.

“I tolerate having you around”, Mickey corrects him with a smirk, grabs Ian’s wrist and tries to wrench his hand away, but stops struggling the second Ian switches tactics and instead pulls Mickey closer by the backs of his thighs.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

Mickey pulls his hair again, kisses him hard. “I know.”

“You nervous?”

“No, I’m not fucking nervous”, Mickey says, but the tightness of his face and the way his shoulders are drawn up tell a completely different story.

Ian gives his hand one last squeeze before they go inside. Mickey’s levels of agitation have been steadily growing the closer they got to the old neighborhood, so Ian’s restrained himself from full-on handholding, instead trying to ease Mickey’s worry by sticking close and scoping out their surroundings. They’ve seen hardly anyone, and no one Mickey knows.

The porch of the Gallagher house, though, is a safe enough spot that Ian’s allowed to reach for his hand and hold on briefly, assuring him of the important thing: Ian’s got him.

He lets go when the door opens, lets Mickey hang back while Ian greets his siblings. There’s the same, unmatched joy every time he sees them again after even a little time apart. Ian feels like he never left, never grew up from being a freckle-faced, floppy-haired kid when he gets to hug Fiona tight, gets to hoist Liam up in the air and ruffle Carl’s hair a bit too forcefully, not giving in until Carl’s wrenching his arm away and trying to twist it behind his back.

“Look at that, you grew a muscle since the last time I saw you”, Ian teases, waits until Carl thinks he’s going to emerge victorious, and then tackles him to the ground.

“Fuck”, Carl groans as Ian helps him up again. “You fucking suck. Teachers are supposed to be lame and nerdy.”

“Sorry”, Ian sighs, mockingly regretful. “Never gonna be as lame as you.”

“But you _are_ fucking nerdy”, Mickey mumbles from somewhere behind him, quiet enough that Ian’s the only one that hears him.

“Hey”, Ian chides, turning back. “You’re just saying that because the only thing you ever read are gossip magazines.”

It earns him a private smile from Mickey, still a little tight around the edges, but the unease clearly starting to take a backseat now that they’re inside.

Ian lays a hand on his shoulder and pulls him forwards. “Guys, this is Mickey.”

“Hey”, Mickey says. He doesn’t shake anyone’s hand, which was to be expected.

“Hi, Mickey”, Fiona greets him. She doesn’t go in for a hug or even a touch on the shoulder, likely sensing that Mickey isn’t exactly the cuddly type. Well, he is, but that’s only for Ian. “Good to meet you, I remember you from the neighborhood.”

Mickey tenses slightly, no doubt imagining what kinds of things she has in mind. It’s not an entirely unfounded fear, given the stealing and the gun waving and the drug dealing he was known for back then. He’s dreading for a similar reaction Lip had upon hearing about their relationship.

He’s got nothing to worry about, though. Ian had a firm talk with them on the phone when Mickey wasn’t around to hear it. Not that Ian doesn’t appreciate his family’s concern when it comes to his love life, but you know. He doesn’t.

“Yeah”, Mickey says, cautious. “We lived on Trumbull Avenue back then.”

Fiona shakes her head, happy if a bit incredulous. “What are the odds? I mean, you were practically neighbors, and now-”

She gestures at them, standing together in the living room. Mickey relaxes. Ian wants to hold his hand again. It’s a good start.

Ian offers to help with dinner, but Fiona banishes everyone except (a loudly complaining) Carl to the living room, so he ends up on the couch playing video games with Liam while they wait. Mickey sits in the armchair next to them, not attempting to make conversation but seeming perfectly content to watch Ian get his ass kicked embarrassingly by his little brother (he’s a little rusty, okay, he doesn’t have time for Mortal Kombat in college).

When they’re all seated at the table, the conversation picks up naturally from where it left off.

“So, how did you two meet?” Fiona asks.

Mickey, unexpectedly, barks out a laugh. “Yeah, how was that?”

Ian feels himself flushing. It is, admittedly, a funny story, but the details are still pretty embarrassing. There’s no way his family is going to hear about what sort of pickup lines he uses when he’s desperate and there’s a super-hot bartender in front of him.

“I was on a date, actually”, Ian says, and Mickey snorts again. Ian kicks him under the table. “At the bar where Mickey works. Long story short, the date went horribly but I got something good out of it anyway.”

Now it’s Mickey’s turn to flush. Sometimes it doesn’t take much. He would never admit it, but he likes when Ian gets sweet like that.

“Hey, that means we get a family discount at your bar, right?” Carl asks.

“You’re not old enough to drink at a bar”, Ian points out.

“What kind of an amateur do you think I am? I’ve got a fake ID.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Real smart, telling that to the guy who pours the drinks.”

“Kev doesn’t give a shit”, Carl says.

“At the Alibi?” Mickey scoffs. “It’s a shithole. We’re a respectable place of business.”

Ian laughs. “Well.”

Carl is not impressed. His plan of forming connections isn’t going as hoped, apparently. “Am I supposed to believe you’d bust me if I tried to buy a beer?”

“Better not fucking try your luck”, Mickey says, sounding annoyed, but not _really_.

It’s not too far from the banter he engages in with Ian. He’s having a good time, or at least not having a horrible time, somehow fitting into Ian’s life here as well. It fills Ian with warm affection, and he has to stuff his own mouth full of lasagna to keep his smile in check.

Carl moves to Debbie’s temporarily empty room for the weekend so Ian and Mickey can get some privacy and don’t need to squeeze themselves into a twin-sized bed. As soon as the bedroom door closes behind them, Mickey relaxes visibly; everything’s been going well, but the lingering anxiety and having to socialize have still taken a toll on him. He still likes it better when it’s just him and Ian.

“Everything good?” Ian asks, steps closer to brush their lips together. Most forms of intimacy are reserved for when they’re alone, and it sounds ridiculous when the only barrier between them for the last two hours has been a dinner table, but he’s missed touches like these.

Mickey _hmm_ s, leaning against Ian. He takes it as a sign to start leading them towards the bed, but Mickey stops him.

“Think it’s weird? Fucking a room away from your family?”

Ian shrugs. When they were all living together, it wasn’t unusual for someone to fuck their boyfriend or girlfriend with the door wide open without a care in the world. Or in the living room. Or in the kitchen, _God_.

“Not really. Not like they don’t know we’re fucking.”

Mickey hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip. His eyes flick from Ian’s mouth to the front of his jeans.

Ian laughs when he catches on. “Fucking is weird but sucking my dick isn’t?”

Mickey tips his head. Ian gets it. It’s a thing with them sometimes, certain kind of intimacy as comfort or stress relief. He kisses Mickey once, hard, hand squeezing his neck firmly.

“On your knees”, he says, low and gentle.

Mickey wastes no time sliding down, settling in front of Ian, eyes hungry, hands already working his jeans open. Ian stays standing, fingers running through Mickey’s hair as he waits.

“Wait, wait”, Ian says when Mickey’s yanking his boxers out of the way, getting an eager hand on his dick. “Put your hands down.”

Mickey looks confused for a second, but does as requested, dropping his hands between his legs. He’s gorgeous, all ready and waiting, and Ian is already half-hard when he pulls his cock out, then guides it to Mickey’s lips while keeping his other hand tangled in Mickey’s hair.

Mickey opens up without prompting, and Ian’s own mouth drops open at the sight; blue eyes peering up at Ian in desire and determination, face a little flushed like he’s embarrassed but his throat working in a way that exposes how much he wants it. Like he can’t wait to have something filling it.

Ian tests it, nudges the head of his cock against Mickey’s lips, not quite inside but enough to leave a sticky smear of pre-cum, holding him in place by the hair at the same time. Mickey closes his eyes briefly, his breath stuttering out. Yeah, he likes that.

When Ian does it again, Mickey pushes against him with his tongue, flattens it against the underside of Ian’s dick and licks once, twice, all the way to the tip. It’s barely anything, but it feels so good, looks even better, borderline filthy with how Mickey’s panting already, mouth shiny and pink and matching the color of his cheeks.

Ian swallows a curse, grips the black locks tighter between his fingers, the slow pace making heat build up in his belly. He’s helpless to do anything but _stare_ and rock his hips forward languidly, sliding across Mickey’s cheek, his lips, his tongue.

Eventually Mickey swallows hard, mumbles out, “Come on.”

“ _Christ_ ”, Ian breathes. They both sound drunk on it.

Ian’s painfully hard, and one look down confirms that Mickey isn’t doing any better; thighs spread wide, an unmistakable tent in his jeans. His hands are still curled in his lap, unmoving.

Afraid that he isn’t going to last very long, Ian pushes Mickey’s head forward, finally slipping his cock into that waiting mouth, his knees damn near buckling at the sensation, warm and wet and ready for him. Mickey doesn’t try to move at all, just lets Ian set the pace, fuck his mouth slowly, push a little deeper every time until he hits the back of Mickey’s throat. Even then, he stays still, pliant and relaxed, and Ian gets the feeling he just needs to let go for a while.

It’s honestly one of the hottest things they’ve ever done, and Ian struggles to keep his breath even, struggles to keep from closing his eyes because of how good it feels. He doesn’t want to lose one moment of this. Mickey’s mouth stretched all wide, spit dribbling out from the corners, down his chin.

“You look so fucking good like that”, Ian pants, tries to whisper it to keep anyone else from hearing.

Mickey moans appreciatively in response, in between the little, wet noises of having a cock shoved down his throat. Ian wants to go harder, wants to hear how he’d sound like then, gagging on it, but they’ll have to save that for when they have a little more privacy.

“Gonna-”, Ian gasps. “Can I- On your face?”

At that, Mickey nods to the best of his abilities, sucks a little harder to get Ian there faster. It doesn’t take a lot until Ian is pulling out, coming half on Mickey’s face, half in his open mouth, _fuck_ , gritting his teeth and chanting curses until it’s over.

Mickey looks somewhat stunned by the intensity of it, wet-eyed and red-faced and a glob of come sliding down his cheek. His hair is sticking up at the back where Ian was pulling on it.

Then he laughs, full of mirth despite how obviously turned on he is. “Fuck, that’s kinda nasty.”

And maybe it’s dumb, but it makes Ian breathless and weak-kneed for an entirely different reason. They have incredibly hot sex, and they have fun together and they trust each other and make each other happy. He’s _so sure_ of it.

Ian thinks he could get high on it. He thinks he could be falling a little bit in love.

He’s laughing as well when hauls Mickey up from the floor, ignores the protest of “hey, at least let me wipe my fucking face first”, and jams a hand down his pants.

Saturday is largely uneventful. They eat breakfast at the house and then head out to take a walk around the neighborhood. It’s a real trip down memory lane, and they end up practically competing who has the most hilarious, most insane incidents to share with the other.

Ian shows Mickey the store where he worked at, and Mickey shows him the store he used to rob. They go see the lot full of junk where Ian went to practice for ROTC, and the empty buildings where Mickey did target practice.

Ian points out the spot under a bridge where they found Frank one spring, after him being missing for weeks. Mickey takes them through a street of rich-looking houses and tells Ian it’s where he got shot in the ass while robbing one of them, then shoves Ian into a bush for laughing.

They walk to the baseball field, and it turns out they were in a team together for half a summer and didn’t even know it. Mickey got kicked off for pissing on first base, which Ian _remembers_ , and he can’t wrap his head around the fact that they spent practically their entire childhoods circling around each other.

They don’t visit the Alibi, because that’s where all the shithead neighborhood drunks are, and the closer they are to his old house, to any place his family used to frequent, the tenser Mickey gets.

“I’ll ask around”, Ian promises him when they’re back on South Wallace. “Kev and Vee definitely know who’s still around and who’s in prison.”

Mickey is visibly grateful. “Thanks.”

They go back to the house and unwind by getting lost in each other, kiss against the kitchen counter a bit when no one’s around, until they hear steps coming down the stairs. It’s Liam, and Ian makes sandwiches for all three of them. At some point Carl comes home from wherever he’s been, and the rest of the night is spend eating and playing more video games and Ian’s brothers competitively sharing embarrassing memories of Ian (and Carl bothering Mickey more about getting to drink at his bar). Mickey doesn’t say much, but Ian can tell he’s listening.

When they’re in bed that night, Mickey rolls onto his back to tuck his head in the space between Ian’s shoulder and chest.

“What’d you think?” Ian asks. He knows Mickey knows what he means.

The space between the question and the answer means that Mickey is trying to go against his natural instinct at a genuine question like that, which is an aggressively sarcastic reply. Ian wonders when he got so good at reading Mickey’s silences.

In the end, he lands somewhere in the middle.

“Think your brother is a little too confident for someone so bad at doing criminal shit”, he says. And then, “But you know. I’m not gonna fake my death to get out of it if you ask me to come here again.”

“Very generous”, Ian says and kisses the top of his head.

“My goodwill still doesn’t extend to every member of your family.”

Ian laughs quietly. “Understood. You and Lip can spend Thanksgiving in separate rooms.”

He holds his breath, waits for Mickey to comment on that, get uneasy about the implication that they’ll be spending holidays together from now on.

Mickey doesn’t. “You better be in my room.”

Ian squeezes an arm around him. Fuck, he’s about to burst, crack open and spill over with unbridled joy.

After a moment of silence, Mickey turns his head so that his cheek is pressed to Ian’s chest, the barely-there stubble scratching at his skin, sending goosebumps all over Ian’s upper body.

“Thanks. For asking me to come. For having my back.”

Ian wants to say he’s proud of Mickey for _choosing_ to come despite everything, for _trusting_ Ian to have his back. Ian would do it a million times over. That’s probably not what Mickey’s looking for, though.

“Anytime”, Ian promises, light and simple, like he doesn’t mean it more than anything in the world. “How’d you feel about it?”

Mickey considers it. “I dunno. It’s… a lot less life changing than I thought it would be. Like, not as big. But that’s a good thing, I think. I guess I’ll know later.”

Ian knows what he means. Often, you don’t even know what changes you’ve gone through before you leave the place you’re in. He runs a hand up and down Mickey’s arm, a soothing motion to wordlessly say they’ll know it together, whatever it is.

“I think that’s a good thing, too.”

Eventually, Mickey shifts and rolls over, settles with his back to Ian so they can fit their bodies together. Ian presses a goodnight kiss to the back of his neck and listens to his breathing even out until he falls asleep.

Ian can’t get to sleep for a while. He focuses on the feel of the body in his arms, warm and comforting, and he would squeeze tighter, hold on with all his might if it wouldn’t earn him an angry Mickey demanding to know why the fuck he was just woken up in the middle of the goddamn night.

All Ian can think about is how incredibly strong Mickey is, going through all the fucking horrors he has and still choosing to bury the fear and be with Ian. All the time he’s spent scared out of his mind and thinking he’s a bad person, every time he’s been taught to hate himself.

And maybe, if Ian was the kind of a guy who always took his therapist’s advice, he would find some bravery in himself as well, for being kicked while he’s down so many times and still trusting Mickey enough to be here.

Here, not quite in his childhood bed but in his childhood home, where he used to lie awake like this, alone, secretly dreaming about having a boy that he loves next to him.

Where he curled up in tears to try to mend his own broken fucking heart, thinking he would never find the thing he’s been aching to have since he was fourteen.

Ian thinks he’s found it now. He’s never been a big believer in symbolism or fate or any of that, but he thinks maybe this full circle means something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading! I had fun (mainly lol) while writing and I hope you had fun, too!
> 
> [tumblr](https://farfromohio.tumblr.com/) here!!


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